The Adventure of the Consulting Woman
by DancingGrimm
Summary: "So the plan is, you have until Saturday night to make that," he pointed at Sherlock, "look and act convincingly like a woman, so she can go and be a damsel in distress and trap a serial murderer. Have I got that right?" A crossdressing case fic.
1. Chapter 1

The things that had been turning up around the flat over the last few days had John a little concerned. Not that they were anything particularly disturbing in themselves. In fact, given that 'things' in the past had included severed body parts ("Of course they need to go in the fridge, where else would you have me put them? The bread bin?"), a marijuana plant ("It's purely experimental John.") and a box of live sewer rats ("Just listen to them! Do you think, seriously, that _anyone_ could have slept through that racket?"), these new items were quite refreshingly normal. But no, John was worried over what they _represented_.

First it had been the tights; sheer black, size large/extra long, still in their packet and tucked in the pocket of Sherlock's coat when John went to answer his phone for him.

Then there had been eyeshadow in the bathroom, a little clippy box that John had some vague idea should be called a palette, with six colours of powder in shades of blue and green.

And now, while doing housework, John had gone to empty the bin in Sherlock's bedroom and had found a tissue with a pink lipstick blot on it.

John was going to have to face the fact that Sherlock had a girlfriend.

Well, probably.

This was going to be difficult on many levels.

As strange an idea as it was, Sherlock was a healthy grown man, and quite a good looking one at that. There was nothing wrong with him seeing someone, despite having never shown any interest previously. What John couldn't work out was when he would have had time to bring this girlfriend home, at least for her to be situated for long enough to be doing her make-up, without John noticing.

And also, why hadn't he introduced John to her? Sherlock met all of John's girlfriends (whether John wanted him to or not) and he would have expected that Sherlock would _want_ them to meet John, at least so he could show off. However, he hadn't even mentioned it.

While it would undoubtably mean an easier time dating for _him_, the reason that this situation was troubling John was simple; whenever he tried to picture the sort of woman that Sherlock would be attracted to and that would be attracted to Sherlock, he could only picture somebody terrifying, nightmarish. How would John cope if he had to deal with some kind of female version of Sherlock turning up in his home at regular intervals? How would his working relationship with Sherlock, their living arrangement, their friendship work?

What if Sherlock...well, what if he ditched John?

John only realised he'd been standing for several minutes in the middle of the living room, plastic bag full of rubbish in one hand, a lipsticky tissue in the other, when his phone snapped him out of his thoughts with a loud ring. He stuffed the tissue into the bag, tied it off and dropped it by the door, then went and looked at his new text:

'_John, come at once to Le Pinet. You aren't busy – SH'_

John rolled his eyes. The cleaning was mostly finished, not that it was ever possible to get everywhere cleaned given the constant state of untidyness due to all of Sherlock's stuff. He supposed he could go...

Oh who the fuck was he kidding?

He pulled on his jacket and put the bag of rubbish in the bin outside on his way.

::

Le Pinet was a little French-style cafe a few streets away. It was a quiet, airy place with good food, not really Sherlock's style, but they'd gone there for lunch once when Speedy's had been closed during a power cut and John had since taken a couple of dates there since. It was mid-afternoon, and he could see as soon as the place came into sight that it was nearly empty. Sherlock's dark hair and clothing were clearly visible in the window against the yellow and white interior of the cafe, and John could just make out another, smaller figure sitting close at his side.

Christ, was this it? Was John going to be introduced to The Girlfriend?

He suddenly felt horribly nervous. No, not even that; he felt uncomfortable, anxious, as if some huge, overwhelming _change_ was waiting for him.

A bell jingled merrily above him as he pushed open the cafe door, and Sherlock and his companion both looked up. The woman was dressed in stylish casual-wear, small and curvy with a pretty face, and as soon as she realised that John was the person Sherlock had been waiting for she gave him a warm smile.

John felt his tension twist inside him; surely Sherlock couldn't be seeing somebody _nice_, could he?

They each had an open notebook filled with lines of text in front of them, along with Sherlock's laptop and a small stack of magazines at the woman's elbow. It looked for all the world like they'd been doing research, and John wondered if he'd got this all wrong. Sherlock waved him over, and John took a seat on the other side of the table to him and the woman, dropping his jacket over the back of the chair as he sat. Sherlock glanced up at him, then gestured vaguely at the woman with one hand while continuing to type with the other.

"John, this is Kirsty Lowen. Kirsty, John."

"Pleased to meet you," Kirsty said in a low, pleasant voice, and she reached across the table to shake John's hand. Her handshake was firm and warm, her eyes fixed on him, her attention easily drawn away from Sherlock. To his relief, he was becoming increasingly sure that she wasn't Sherlock's girlfriend, not even Sherlock's type.

Though she was definitely _his_ type.

"Kirsty is helping me with a case," Sherlock continued, not looking up from the computer screen. "She is a consulting woman."

"A...I'm sorry, a what?" John asked.

Kirsty smiled at him and opened her mouth to answer, but Sherlock interrupted, looking up at John with the withering half-scowl that he was all too used to.

"A consulting woman," he replied irritably, enunciating the words with care as if it would help. "Now listen carefully and I will explain to you the details of the case."

Kirsty gave John a sympathetic 'what _is_ he like, eh?' sort of look and he smiled at her as Sherlock turned his attention back to the computer and began to speak.

"Over the last two years and four months there have been six murders that were committed under similar circumstances. The police of the various nations in which the murders took place have yet to piece together the simple fact that they have all been committed by the same person, and so I have decided to take the opportunity of the main suspect's precense in London to lure him out. Do you both follow so far?"

Kirsty nodded, scribbling on her pad. John tapped his finger on the table to get Sherlock's attention and asked; "Does Lestrade know you're doing this?"

Sherlock sneered slightly and turned his eyes back towards the computer screen. "He is aware of my interest in the case, but as none of the murders have been committed with in the Met's sphere of influence he cannot be seen to become involved. Now, _if_ I may continue?"

John gave him a steady glare, which made Kirsty giggle quietly. Oh dear _yes_, she was pretty.

"The coinciding facts of the murders are as follows: Each has taken place in a wealthy region of Europe, mostly in resorts or at exclusive society events in cities. The victim in each case is male, middle aged and married to a woman he has been known to mistreat or abuse. He has been found strangled or garrotted between two and four days after his disappearance from an event or gathering at which another man publicly took him to task on his treatment of his wife."

"And was that other man the same in every instance?" John asked. Sherlock gave him a faint smile.

"Precisely. This same man has also romanced the woman in each case, taking her away from the scene of her husband's humiliation in a way that witnesses have described as 'chivalrous'. Whether or not this has resulted in sexual relations is unconfirmed."

"So he saves them and kills their husbands?" Kirsty asked, propping her chin in one hand. "Has he got some kind of...hero complex do you think?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I can't say at this point, not enough data. But I can tell you who this man is." He turned the laptop around so they could both see it. A large photograph of a fair haired, late-middle aged man filled the screen, the image maximised from an article on a gossip website that was greyed out in the background. The man was a little overweight with a rather jowly face that showed signs of having once been handsome. His suit (as John could now attest from having been lectured by Sherlock about such things) was bespoke and of high quality, accessorised with some subtle but undoubtedly valuable gold jewellery. Kirsty wrinkled her nose at the picture, clearly not impressed.

"This is Algernon Garvin," Sherlock announced. "Born into money, he holds token positions on the boards of various companies and is what, fifty years or so ago, would have been referred to as a 'jet setter'. He travels the world, takes part in high society gatherings and spends money frivolously, often surrounding himself with women in the process."

"Nice work if you can get it," John murmured.

"Hmm. Well, at least your career rarely leads to deaths by strangulation John. Garvin's alibi intrigues me; he isn't the sort of man to have connections or loyal friends who would kill for him and he hasn't been associated with any criminal activities since a minor incident in the early eighties, yet in each case there is very little time during the possible window in which the murder was committed that he wasn't accompanied by at least one person, often the wife of the victim. It's...surprising that he should be so clever. Anyway, a client who owes me a favour has been able to confirm that Garvin will be at a party at the Royal Lancaster Hotel on Saturday evening, thrown in aid of a branch of the National Trust. I have an invitation to the party and am going to ensnare him."

"Ensnare?"

"You know full well what that means John."

"Yes, but...I mean, ensnare how, exactly?"

Sherlock sniffed, as if offended that John doubted he had a perfect plan. John didn't actually doubt it exactly, but Sherlock wasn't always as on the ball as he usually was when it came to things like sex and attraction. Whether it was due to inexperience, lack of interest or something else entirely, John wasn't sure, but that blind spot could easily lead to trouble if Sherlock was going to be playing some kind of cruel spouse in this endeavour.

"I've looked into Garvin's romantic history, as well as the women whose husbands were murdered, and have found a great deal of correlation between all of them; he has a very distinct type."

John became aware of a mischevious little smirk on Kirsty's face.

"Simply put," Sherlock continued," He likes tall, willowy women with dark hair, younger than him but no younger than thirty or so."

John looked at Kirsty; in her thirties, yes, but aside from that she was small, buxom and strawberry blonde. She grinned at him and shook her head, then pointed one finger at Sherlock. "Not me, him," she said.

John turned back to Sherlock.

"No."

"_John_!"

"You?"

"Of course me. Why not me?"

John sighed. "Sherlock, you're...you're _very_ tall. And bony. And your hands are huge, your voice is deep, your-"

"_That_ is why I've hired Kirsty," Sherlock interrupted with a smug note of triumph in his voice. "I told you, she's a consulting woman."

Kirsty was now giggling irrepressibly, attempting to cover it up by pretending to blow her nose into a tissue.

"Um...I think one of you had better tell me exactly what that means," John suggested, praying it wasn't something bizarre.

Kirsty nodded and pre-emptively shut Sherlock up with a wave of her hand, making John immediately envious of her.

"I'm transgender John. You know what that means?"

John nodded, somewhat surprised.

"I always knew I was a woman, and nearly three years ago I changed my name and began living as I am now. And when I did, I found that there was far more difference between living as a man and living as a woman than I'd expected."

She paused, and John nodded again, getting the vague impression that he was listening to a planned speech, something she'd used to explain things to people over and over.

"People react to you differently, and I had to behave differently to get the same responses from interactions. I discovered that there's a big gap between being a woman as myself and being a woman as part of society. I had a lot of adjusting to do. Do you understand John?"

"I...yes, I think so," John replied. "And so...you advise other people on these matters?"

Kirsty smiled at him. "Yes, exactly. And, well, I'm a hairdresser professionally, and I've got a bit of a reputation for helping people to get their, you know, their style down, when they feel ready to do so. It can make such an impact on your attitude, you know, looking like you _feel_. So, I've started up a little website where I can give people advice, on their look and on their attitude and other things. But I've been looking for a project I can showcase a bit, and when Sherlock came and asked me for help, I thought it would give me some useful insight, you know? How does a man, in body and mind, transition into a woman? Have you ever read any of Angela Carter's books John?"

"Uh, can't say as I have, no. So you're helping Sherlock for reasons of, what, intellectual discovery?"

"And money," Sherlock pointed out.

"And because it sounds exciting, helping solve a murder and that. Don't you think?"

"Oh, I know that feeling all too well," John told her, and she smiled impishly at him.

"So the plan is, you have until Saturday night to make _that_," he pointed at Sherlock, "look and act convincingly like a woman, so _she_ can go and be a damsel in distress and in so doing trap a serial murderer. Have I got that right? Sherlock?"

Sherlock was frowning stormily at his flip tone and Kirsty was trying not to laugh at his expression again, when Sherlock's phone abruptly rang, and he took it out of his pocket to glance at the screen. "It's that _idiot_," he snarled, and strode off across the restaurant, tucking himself out of the way in a nook near the bar so they couldn't hear his conversation.

Kirsty watched him go, her eyebrows raised. "Who is it then?" she asked John.

"Oh, who knows. As far as Sherlock's concerned, practically everyone is an idiot. He sounded properly annoyed though, so it's most likely somebody who's actually _done_ something stupid, rather than just a stranger who's been refused the benefit of the doubt."

Kirsty pursed her lips together hard, but couldn't quite stop a little splurt of laughter from escaping, and John joined her in a subdued fit of the giggles. He was peripherally aware of Sherlock peering curiously at them, the phone still pressed to his ear, but ignored him. Kirsty's cheeks were red and she looked adorable. Yeah, John decided, let's give it a try.

"Kirsty, maybe this is a little forward of me, but I wonder if you'd let me take you out to dinner one night," he asked, showing her his best flirting smile.

She smiled sweetly in return, but dipped her head in a way that John knew all too well meant he was about to be turned down.

"That's really lovely of you John, but I'm seeing somebody, actually. Sorry."

Damn. She was even used to Sherlock. It would have been perfect.

"Ah well, I hope you don't mind me asking," he said, she shook her head.

"Oh no, not at all. I'm flattered."

They were grinning a bit awkwardly at one another when Sherlock returned to the table. He put his phone back in his pocket, opened his mouth to speak...then glanced between John and Kirsty with open curiosity. He was mostly behind Kirsty, so she didn't notice, but John knew the look on Sherlock's face like no other; he'd just worked out what conversation they'd had while he'd been away from the table, could probably quote it back to them if pressed.

And to John's horror, he looked curious.


	2. Public Indecency

After covering a few more details with Kirsty, they bade her goodbye and paid the bill before leaving, John leading his flatmate through the streets to the nearest supermarket rather than going straight back to Baker Street. Sherlock had been peering at him with open curiosity ever since he'd come back from taking his phone call, and John had an uncomfortable feeling that he was about to have a conversation he didn't want to have. Better in Asda than in the street, as Sherlock tended to keep his voice down just a little in the supermarket. He said he didn't like the accoustics.

They were most of the way to Asda by the time Sherlock finally stopped studying him and spoke up, and though he'd been dreading it, John felt himself ease slightly as Sherlock deliberately cleared his throat and put his thoughts into words.

"You are aware, John, that Kirsty is biologically male?"

"I'm a doctor, Sherlock, I know what transgender means. She never said if she'd had the op or not, but it doesn't really matter."

"You've no objection to your potential girlfriend having a penis?" Sherlock asked, in the deliberately blunt tone John hated.

"No," he replied tersely. They were at the supermarket now, and John led Sherlock through the entrance, picking up a basket as they went by the stand. "For the record, I've no objection to my boyfriends having them either," he added, not looking at Sherlock's face as he spoke.

He actually felt the wave of intrigued delight that rolled off Sherlock, could picture perfectly the expression of gleeful surprise on his face without even having to look. "John!" Sherlock cried with joy, jigging along at his side as they walked among the shelves of fresh vegetables, and John knew what the rest of that sentence would have been if Sherlock had bothered to voice it; 'Well done, you've managed to surprise me,' or words to that effect. It didn't happen often, John would readily admit.

"How did you hide it from me?" Sherlock asked, grinning, as John perused the onions.

"Well I wasn't _trying_ to hide it, was I. There's usually no point," John admitted. "Until recently I...I thought you knew about my sexuality."

Sherlock frowned, then reached over John's shoulder to pluck one of the onions he was about to put into the bag from his hand, turning it to show a miscoloured spot on the skin. John picked out another one. "You've never dated a man since I've known you," Sherlock said. "And given the energy with which you persue women, I'm quite surprised that you haven't taken the opportunity to do so. Is it due to some desire to have children?"

"No, it's just...okay, are you familiar with the Kinsey Scale?" John asked, and Sherlock gave him a dirty look for daring to suggest there was any subject he wasn't well informed about. John became suddenly aware that he was discussing a sensitive topic in the middle of the supermarket and glanced around, but there was hardly anybody nearby. It was only about four o'clock on a Sunday and it appeared to be a low point in the supermarket day.

"Well," he continued, "I'd say I'm maybe a one, possibly verging on a two, on that scale. Do you understand?"

Sherlock nodded. "So you are predominantly heterosexual, with slight leanings towards homosexuality," he announced, his penetrating voice a little too loud for John's liking. A couple of heads turned towards them slightly but nobody was seriously looking.

"I don't often find myself attracted to men," John replied quietly. "I like going out with people, being in a relationship. It's just the case that since I've known you, all my relationships have been with women."

Sherlock _hmm_ed at this, nodded his head vigorously, then wandered off. John glanced around again and shook off his feeling of unease, turning his mind back to the shopping. He picked out apples, remembering which type Sherlock prefered, then added a bunch of bananas to the basket. There was already half a bunch in the fruit bowl at home, but he'd caught Sherlock doing something to one of them with a pipette the other day and, even though he said they were fine, John didn't trust him with food. Not anymore.

He felt something drop into the basket, and looked to find that Sherlock had added an extremely phallic looking butternut squash, having placed it so that it stuck up.

"Oh come on, that's just childish!" John exclaimed, pushing it to lie flat.

"It's not childish in the least. Mrs Hudson says they make good soup. Is Mrs Hudson childish?" Sherlock was smiling as he spoke, probably still high off the novelty of John having surprised him. John gave him a glare and set off across the shop floor, picking up some cartons of milk before turning down the dried foods aisle. Sherlock caught up to him, studying his face from one side.

"What attracted you to Kirsty?" he asked thoughtfully.

John shrugged. "She's pretty, bright, cheerful..." he thought about her reactions to Sherlock and added; "Patient. I just liked her."

Sherlock nodded. He stayed quiet for a while, watching half-interestedly as John selected bags of pasta and rice, then moved on to the aisle of tinned food.

"John, are you aware that there is a definite 'type' of person that you are attracted to? I've noticed, you know."

John stopped and thought about that one, his hand halfway to reaching for a tin of soup. Did he have a type? He thought back over his more recent girlfriends and tried to compare them to one another...

"I suppose it says a lot about how badly your emotions colour your observational skills that you haven't noticed," Sherlock announced smugly, reaching up to adjust John's hand away from the mushroom soup and over to his preferred tomato and basil. "Would you like to know what your type is John?"

John sighed. "I supose you're going to tell me whether I like it or not?"

"Yes indeed," Sherlock replied, entirely too pleased with himself. "You like women who are roughly as tall as you, or taller for preference. Ideally they should be of a slim build, but not too thin and preferably physically fit. You don't necessarily choose women who are typically beautiful, but you prefer those who make an effort to present themselves well. In personality, you are drawn to women who are intelligent, forthright, and have a sense of social responsibility, which is usually reflected in their job or hobbies about which they feel passionate. Finally, your partners should be dignified, with a strong sense of self respect, though they should not be averse to allowing you to look after or coddle them on occasion. Does all of this sound familiar John?"

John nodded wearily. He hadn't really registered these similarities at the time, but Sherlock was right, as bloody always.

"Kirsty fits all of these requirements quite neatly. The question is," Sherlock continued as he strode along at John's side, "Are your preferences the same for male partners?"

At Sherlock's querying look, John shrugged and distracted himself by reading the nutritional information on a packet of dried cheese sauce. "My tastes have changed over the years. Like I say, it's a long time since I've gone out with a man."

Sherlock gave him a suspicious look. "Are you saying that you don't even know what kind of man you're attracted to? You can't even summon up an idea?"

"Not...not really," John replied. "Why do you want to know?"

"Oh good heavens, John. What a question! Naturally I want to know everything!"

John chuckled a bit and turned into the bakery aisle, deliberately keeping his gaze away from the display of fresh doughnuts. Bread only, he told himself. Sensible, low fat bread.

"I know practically everything else about you," Sherlock pointed out with a frown.

"Whether I want you to or not," John agreed. It was discomfortingly true, but John had become used to it. As long as he could keep a few small, unimportant things from Sherlock, he would be okay. He wouldn't go insane, really.

"Well then, are your tastes in sexual activities similar when with men and women?"

John closed his eyes for a minute and sighed with frustration. Was Sherlock really never going to learn a sense of propriety? It seemed not. When he looked around again, an elderly lady was standing at the end of the otherwise empty aisle, glaring at them as if their eavesdropped conversation had personally offended her. John sighed again, unable to stop himself.

"Look Sherlock, I don't think this is the time or place-"

"It's a simple enough question, John. Do you like to perform the same acts in bed with a man as you do with a woman? You don't have to give me details, I'm not that insensitive."

Yes you are, you bastard, John thought.

"I wonder if you are actually bisexual," Sherlock mused, picking up a cottage loaf and regarding it like Hamlet looking at Yorick's skull.

"I more or less just told you I was," John hissed at him. The old lady was still giving them evils.

"Yes, but I wonder if the term 'pansexual' wouldn't suit you better. After all, many bisexual men and women may hesitate or become uncomfortable at the prospect of sexual relationships with transgender persons, but you-"

John tried to tune his flatmate's voice out, but couldn't. There were now two old ladies at the end of the aisle, both glaring, and the effect of two was far greater than simply the effect of one doubled in strength. John was starting to feel really uncomfortable. Like his skin was starting to smoulder.

"Sherlock, I promise I'll talk to you about this at length when we get home, and you can ask me as many questions as you like, but only on the condition that you shut up here and now."

Sherlock paused to consider this, then gave John a sinister smile and mimed pulling a zip cross his mouth. John breathed a sigh of relief. The old ladies followed them into the next aisle to continue glaring with their laser eyes, but gave up when they realised no more salacious conversation was forthcoming.

Amazingly, Sherlock was quiet all the way through the rest of the shopping, and through the checkout too, even though the young man serving at the conveyor belt had awful grammar and asked John if he wanted to 'pay wivva card'. He was even almost completely silent, and apparently quite content about it, as they began the walk home, and John was beginning to wonder if he had any other personal traits that he could use to bargain with, perhaps to keep Sherlock quiet when he had journals and such to read.

That said though, it did give him time to think, and that wasn't always a good thing.

Despite his earlier denials, John had been aware of at least some of the details of his 'type' that Sherlock had announced. And most of the time he didn't go for people with those traits consciously or deliberately. It had been true also, that his tastes had changed over time somewhat. But all the same...

Tall, slender, a-typically beautiful and well presented.

Intelligent, passionate, forthright, strong sense of self-respect.

Likes to be coddled?

He glanced uncomfortably at his flatmate as they walked, his occasional paranoia that Sherlock would abruptly develop psychic powers rearing its head again. Because there was a reason his tastes had recently been skewed in these particular directions, and a _damn_ good reason that he'd had no interest in men since living with Sherlock.

Or rather, no interest in _other_ men.

He awkwardly shifted his carrier bags in his hands, the familiar _want-can't have-want-can't have_ rolling depressingly through his mind.

It was only once they were nearly back to Baker Street when an unpleasant thought occured to John.

"Sherlock, you know when you go off playing a battered wife?"

"Mmm?" Sherlock responded pleasantly, lips still zipped.

"Who...who is going to be playing your evil husband?"

Sherlock grinned and hooked his keys out of his pocket. "You will John, obviously. You'll be the perfect bait."

"Oh for fuck's sake," John sighed.


	3. Trappings

Sherlock, of course, treated the whole thing like an experiment. Everything that Kirsty told him, everything that he looked up online or read in the stack of books and articles she'd lent him, every little detail got analysed and debated to within an inch of its life, then weighed up for inclusion in the mind palace. And of course John tried to be supportive, heaven knows he did, and he listened to Sherlock's discourses on Fritz Klein and Polynesian fa'afafine and somatostatin neurons with genuine interest.

Still, he was quite glad to leave the flat for his afternoon shift at the surgery at lunchtime on Monday, feeling remarkably peaceful in the knowledge that this was one experiment that couldn't possibly lead to anything being set on fire or dissolved.

Hopefully.

Sunday's interrogation, during which Sherlock had wheedled out considerable detail of John's sexual history, had taken far too long for John's liking, but was now well and truly over with, to the relief of, John felt, both parties. In the aftermath, work was relatively relaxing; the afternoon went quietly, no emergencies or anything. He was covering for another doctor who had come down with a case of tonsillitis and would only be needed for a few shifts this week, which suited him perfectly. Just enough work to keep him out and about while Sherlock was doing his stuff, but not so much that he wouldn't have time to join in with the planning a bit.

Sarah was seeing somebody else now, another short-ish fair haired doctor, though a pharmacologist rather than a physician this time, and John was rather glad to know that he wasn't the only one who had a predictable type. Somehow he and Sarah got along better now she was spoken for, like a door had been closed behind their awkward, apologetic break-up and they didn't need to think about it anymore.

She waved goodbye to him cheerfully as he set off for home at the end of the day, even asked him to give her greetings to Sherlock which was nice, and John was feeling quite well with the world by the time he got home.

He almost tripped over a pile of bags stacked right inside the front door of course, could have brained himself on the floor, but he was used to things like that.

"Sherlock, did you have to leave these right fucking here?" he shouted into the flat. A distracted reply of "Leave what?" drifted out from behind the closed door of Sherlock's room, and John just sighed and hung up his coat.

He scooted the bags away from the door with his foot and went into the kitchen to make a cup of tea, only noticing as he re-entered the living room a few minutes later that he recognised the shop names printed on the sides of the bags. Usually Sherlock's clothes came wrapped in soft tissue paper, in sturdy cord-handled bags that were either self-importantly blank or bore insignias of businesses John had never heard of, often comprised of two Victorian-sounding surnames.

But these he actually recognised.

Monsoon, Viyella, Dickens and Jones, Kaliko...he knew from being dragged around shops the far-too-many times he'd had to attend weddings with various girlfriends, that these shops were known for good quality ready-to-wear clothes, and were also decent places to purchase formal wear. John couldn't imagine they'd carry clothes that would fit Sherlock though, or at least not any that would be long enough for his tall frame.

He opened the one at the top of the pile and pulled out the dress inside; a black cocktail dress, fairly plain, with several layers of fine net fabric fluffing out the skirt. The next bag yielded another black dress, this one with a long skirt and long baggy sleeves, gathered at the cuffs. He poked through the rest of them and found more black dresses of various styles, some of them accompanied by odds and ends of jewellery and hosiery. Some of them were too large across the bodice to fit Sherlock, some too small to possibly accomodate him. What on earth was he doing with them all? Why so many?

Just then the door opened and John glanced up from replacing the dresses in their bags to see Sherlock emerge from his bedroom in his usual suit and shirt.

"Ah, John," he said with energy. "I've been wondering when you'd get home."

"I got back nearly fifteen minutes ago," John noted, tucking a diaphanous wrap back into its bag.

"Well, never mind, I wanted to ask you – ah! You've seen the dresses. Good, what do you think?"

John sat down on the sofa and stared at the pile of bags as Sherlock strode across the room to stand beside him.

"Well...how are you actually going to wear them? Because-"

"Kirsty has a friend who alters clothing. She's going to take the bits I like from the various dresses and sew them together into one. Apparently she's quite talented."

She'd have to be, John thought, fighting off mental images of Sherlock going into clothes shops and sticking this limb or that limb into various garments to see how they took him.

"She's going to help me find suitable shoes as well. I tried asking in the clothing stores but apparently they don't tend to carry women's footwear in sizes above eight or nine. You'd think they'd realise how much business they're losing."

"Hm," John replied. "Did you say you wanted to ask me something, Sherlock?"

"Yes, I did. In your opinion John, does a woman look slutty if she does not wear a bra under her dress?"

John thought about it. "Well, I suppose it depends on the woman, and on the dress. And on the-"

He cut himself off as he looked up and noticed that Sherlock had somehow acquired...

Boobies

Titties

Hooters

The doctor in John's mind cleared his throat and pointedly said '_breasts'_, moments before John managed to open his mouth and say "Sherlock, you've got breasts!"

"Aren't they realistic?" Sherlock said proudly, looking lovingly down at his chest. "Kirsty and I went out to buy them this afternoon. Fascinating shop, I'll have to take you there one day."

"Uh huh," John responded. They certainly were realistic. Small and pert, which suited Sherlock's rangy physique, the shapes of the nipples just barely disturbing the lie of the fabric covering them. "What was that about a bra?" John asked, unable to break eye-contact.

"Well, I've heard that women often think less of other women who don't wear one, especially at formal events. But these can be attached with adhesive tape and it's so much more comfortable than all those straps. I don't know what to do." He flexed his shoulders a bit, presumably to demostrate how well attached they were.

"Adhesive?" John repeated weakly.

"Yes, look." Sherlock popped open another button on his shirt, dipped his hand inside and peeled off one of the breasts. John reached out for it automatically as it was handed to him, then sat there holding it dumbly. It was petite and roughly teardrop shaped, heavy in his hand and warm from Sherlock's body. The colour of the silicon it was made from was a fairly good match to Sherlock's skin tone, and the surface felt only a little way shy of realistic. The nipple was deeply pink and attractively perked up. Had they tried to match that to Sherlock's real body too?

John had to shut his eyes and take a deep breath.

"You see, the back is shaped to fit the contours of the pectoralis major, so it just needs a little of this tape on it and it sits quite comfortably. What do you think, John?"

John let his fingertips trail over the sticky material on the back of the false breast, struggling to tear his eyes away from that little nipple. "I think...I think you should wait until the dress is sorted, then see how it looks with or without," he suggested, quite proud that he'd managed to come up with such a sensible suggestion.

"Hm, yes I suppose," Sherlock agreed, and sighed. "I had scheduled to get this decided tonight, but never mind."

John felt Sherlock's gaze become calculating on him, and looked up to see a smirk form on his friend's lips.

"Having fun?" Sherlock asked, nodding at John's hands, still reverently cupping the silicon breast.

"Uh...I suppose it's just the novelty. I've never really seen falsies up close before."

"_Falsies_? John, they're not _falsies_! They are hand-finished silicone breast forms!" Sherlock yanked the other one out of his shirt and brandished it at John. "Look at the perfect texture of the silicon! Consider the amount of work that has gone into the wrinkles on the areola!"

"Okay, okay yes," John agreed feebly, not quite sure where to look.

"These are works of art John," Sherlock insisted and, at John's nod of agreement, he strode off to his bedroom, leaving his other breast on the coffee table.

John picked it up and held them, one in each hand. Shook them a little bit to see how much they jiggled. The one Sherlock had just removed was noticeably warmer than its twin, fresh from his skin, and John pressed his fingers into the silicon as if he could soak up some of that warmth.

Sherlock stuck his head back out into the living room. "John, I...are you still playing with those?" he asked, frowning.

John grinned. "I can't help it Sherlock, you've got fantastic tits."

::

On Tuesday, Kirsty came over about an hour before John had to leave for the surgery, and he made her a sandwich at the same time he did his own. Sherlock declined to eat, as was usual at lunch time, but John cut up an apple and put it in a bowl on the arm of Sherlock's chair, and when he went back into the living room to sit down with his own plate, half of the apple was gone.

"Has he shown you his new boobs, John?" Kirsty asked as he sat, and John nodded ruefully.

"Yes, they're very nice."

"My favourite makers," Kirsty said with a happy sigh. "I had a pair of those for ages before I finally saved up enough for the implants. I've still got them in a box under my bed."

"What's on the cards for today, then?" John asked, trying not to think too much about her breasts while she was sitting right next to him.

"Body language," Kirsty said, a hint of pride in her voice, and she nodded over at Sherlock. John turned and looked at him, not sure at first what he was supposed to be seeing. Then it dawned on him.

Sherlock was mimicking Kirsty's posture as he sat in his chair, the spread of her fingers as he held his tea cup. As Kirsty reached up to smooth a lock of her hair back into place, Sherlock did the same, and it was so different a gesture to Sherlock's usual airy _flick_ that it almost made John startle.

He could see it. He could see what that posture, those gestures, would look like on the woman Sherlock was going to become. He'd always known Sherlock was a good actor, but...this was eerie. He caught Kirsty smiling at him from out of the corner of his eye.

"He's been practicing since Sunday," she told him. "Impressive, no? Today Sherlock's going to be watching my body language and adapting it to himself. We'll be going to Anise's as well, to make arrangements for his clothes and pick up the shoes, so I'll teach him how to walk in heels too."

"It's fascinating John, really," Sherlock added. "I hadn't realised until I began paying close attention, but women move so very differently to men, and not just because of the physiological differences."

John nodded. "So you both feel it's going well then?" he asked.

Kirsty suddenly looked a touch surprised. "Oh John, we aren't leaving you out are we? I know you're part of this too, but we seem to be going off and doing everything without you!"

"John's used to it," Sherlock said offhandedly.

"It's fine Kirsty, Sherlock's the one we need to worry about here, I think. He's going to have the most work to do on the night."

Kirsty appeared to be reassured by this, and took her diary out of her handbag. "Well, we'll try and make some headway with the body language today then. Anise should have the dress ready by Thursday...so Sherlock, if it's okay with you, we'll start working on your make-up and hair and, you know, your overall look tomorrow and finalise it on Friday. Have you been working on your voice?"

John looked over at his flatmate at this. He'd heard Sherlock talking to himself in his bedroom the previous evening, his voice somewhat higher pitched than normal, but hadn't been able to hear clearly enough to get a good idea of what he sounded like. Voices, if not accents, was where Sherlock usually fell down on his acting, and John was a little worried that he'd end up just sounding like himself on helium.

"Of course I've been working on it," Sherlock told Kirsty with a smirk. "You're going to be very impressed." Kirsty raised her eyebrows at this but didn't say anything. John wondered if she had the same concerns that he did.

"Have you practiced on John?" she asked.

Sherlock shook his head. "John doesn't think I can pull it off," he replied, raising his hand imperiously to cut off John's denial. "Don't pretend John. I want him to get the full effect, when I'm ready."

Kirsty grinned. "You want to spring it on him? What, on the big night?"

"Maybe," Sherlock replied, looking sinister.

John sighed. "I think that's my cue to go to work," he muttered, glancing at his watch.

Sherlock's creepy smile followed him all the way to the door.

::

He got home that evening to find an argument in progress.

"Why can't I try with the real ones? This is ridiculous!" Sherlock was saying loudly as John got in the front door, deep voice echoing down the stairs. Mrs Hudson popped her head out of her door as John took his jacket off.

"Awful lot of funny noises up there," she said worriedly. "Are they alright?"

"I'm sure they'll be fine, Mrs Hudson. I'll go and send them back to their corners," John told her and, reassured, she ducked back into her flat, the theme music of 'Neighbours' already audible from within. He climbed the stairs slowly, increasingly aware of a series of arrhythmic thumping noises from inside the flat. There was another huffy statement from Sherlock, not quite audible through the door this time, followed by a loud, long-suffering sigh that John assumed had come from Kirsty. He pushed the door open and took in the room before stepping through.

Kirsty stood in the middle of the floor, her back to John and her hands on her hips, looking annoyed. They had pushed the armchairs and all of Sherlock's debris against the walls to clear a space, and Sherlock seemed to be doing laps of the room, round and round Kirsty.

In heels.

John actually had to clap his hand over his mouth to stop...he wasn't sure. Laughter? Screams? His usually carelessly graceful flatmate was lumbering about like a newborn giraffe, wobbling and staggering and giving the general impression that he'd recently received a blow to the head.

Kirsty turned to John as the door creaked shut behind him, and as soon as their eyes met her irritated expression faded and she had to cover her mouth as well.

"Just _stupid_!" Sherlock snapped venemously at them, and he dropped heavily onto the sofa, kicking his heel-clad feet up and glaring at them.

"Do you absolutely need to wear heels?" John asked, not unreasonably. Sherlock scowled at him and scoffed.

"He says it's for his character," Kirsty said, picking up a large box from beside the kitchen doorway. "The woman he's going to play is putting on a facade of care-free stylishness, and as such wouldn't attend a party in anything less than her best clothes, which should include heels. That right Sherlock?"

"Hmph," Sherlock replied, folding his arms.

"Okay then," John said. He stepped closer to his flatmate and looked at the shoes in question; glossy black court shoes with a heel of around two and a half inches. He was sure that he himself wouldn't have been able to walk in them, but Sherlock was usually better at such things than him.

"How long have you been practicing?" he asked. Sherlock just gave him a dirty look and tucked his chin into his chest pettishly.

"About an hour," Kirsty answered, and John winced. He couldn't even think of the last time it had taken Sherlock more than twenty minutes to master a straightforward skill like that.

"Well, you'll get it, I'm sure," he offered.

Sherlock shrugged at him. "I'm sure I'd do better if I could wear the real ones," he muttered, narrowing his eyes at Kirsty.

John turned to her to see her pulling open the box. "These are what he's going to wear on the night," she told John, holding the box out. "I won't let him wear them to practice on though because he could easily snap the heels off them if he fell, and they were pricey. The ones he's got on now are just cheapies."

John picked up one of the shoes from the tissue and turned it over in his hands. "Bloody hell," he said under his breath. Still a glossy black court shoe, yes. But the heel was higher by at least an inch than the ones Sherlock currently wore, and as narrow as a drinking straw. The edges of the upper were trimmed in ruffled folds of silky ribbon, the ends of which were drawn into a dainty little bow on the back of the heel.

John felt his mouth go dry, though he couldn't quite have said why. He hurriedly put the shoe back into the box, then looked up to find Kirsty staring curiously at his face.

"Um...I'm going to make some dinner," he announced. "Would you like to join us?"

Kirsty smiled and shook her head. "Thanks, but I've got plans this evening. Actually, I'd better get a move on."

She gathered up her things, waved away John's offer to call a taxi, and put on her coat.

"Goodnight John, Sherlock," she called on her way out the door. "Keep practicing. And don't put on the fancy ones yet!"

Sherlock struggled back to his feet as John closed the door behind her, and clonked across the living room floor to pick up his laptop. John still couldn't help finding the image funny; Sherlock was dressed in his normal shirt and trousers and the shoes...well, they didn't really _go_.

"You're eating dinner with me," John told him seriously, and Sherlock gave a put upon sigh before tucking the laptop under his arm and making his way into his bedroom. John changed out of his work clothes and went into the kicthen to start the cooking. There were no experiments occupying either the sink or the table, so he took advantage of it and made a large batch of bolognese sauce, thinking he could put several servings of it in the freezer if only he could convince Sherlock he was never going to use those cow hearts that were taking up all the space.

Sherlock emerged again just as the pasta was boiling, and stumbled into the kitchen. John turned around to ask him to get plates out, but had to turn back to the hob almost immediately for fear that he would burst out laughing.

Sherlock was wearing his pyjamas and dressing gown.

And his practice shoes.

John had never seen anything so silly in his life.

All through dinner, while telling John about his observations of female posture and facial expression, Sherlock clicked the heels of his shoes against the tile floor, apparently unaware that he was doing it. John smiled to himself as he ate his spaghetti.

After they'd eaten and washed up, Sherlock did more circuits of the living room while John watched a bit of telly, and was still going strong when John went up to bed. Looking down the stairs at the somewhat ridiculous image his flatmate made, John felt a wave of tenderness suddenly wash through him.

"Sherlock?" he called.

"Yes?" _clonkclonkclonk_

"I...don't hurt your ankles, okay?"

"I'll be fine John. Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

Reading his book in bed, John could still hear the remorseless noise of Sherlock's battle with the shoes going on downstairs, and couldn't help but smile to himself. If nothing else, it spoke volumes about his flatmate's determination.

Sometime after he switched his light out, he became aware that the _clonkclonkclonk_ had become more like _clackclackclack_ and eventually _clickclickclick_. He couldn't have said what made the noises distinct, exactly, but the final result was, he felt, what Sherlock and Kirsty were probably aiming for. The clicks had a certain...elegance to them.

A measure of grandeur.

A sassy tone.

And because 'sassy' was not a word that John wanted to mentally associate with Sherlock, he fished a pair of earplugs out of his bedside table, crammed them into place, and went to sleep.

::

On Wednesday morning, Sherlock was fussing agitatedly around the living room when John got up, which wasn't unusual in itself. He was, however, dressed in clothes fit to leave the house in.

"Where are you off to so early?" John asked. "Something come up with Lestrade?"

"No, Kirsty's coming over. She'll be here in a few minutes," Sherlock replied, picking up a small pile of books from the floor and looking for somewhere to put them down again. John realised that he'd been busy reorganising the room after the furniture had been moved the previous evening.

"What are you two up to today, then?" John asked.

"Make up. We're going to Boots to get make up and other necessities, though Kirsty has yet to give me a full list. John, have you ever plucked your eyebrows?"

The question was such a non-sequitur that it took John a moment to realise he was supposed to answer. "Um, no, I can't say as I have. I pulled out a nose hair once...I wouldn't recommend it."

"Hmm," was Sherlock's only response before a knock came at the door, and he rushed down the stairs to let Kirsty in. John went into the kitchen and switched on the kettle, then self consciously smoothed his hair down and pulled his dressing gown a bit tighter over his pyjamas.

Sherlock and Kirsty were already bickering a bit by the time they made it into the living room, Sherlock apparently wanting to be taken somewhere more upmarket than a chain store like Boots, Kirsty countering that it would do Sherlock good to not be coddled for an afternoon. John smiled to himself as he made his tea and stuck his head out of the kitchen doorway.

"Morning. Do you have time for a cuppa?" he offered, but Kirsty shook her head.

"Thanks, but we've a taxi waiting. You off to work this afternoon again? Maybe I'll see you tomorrow." With that, she herded Sherlock out the door and they were gone.

John had three hours before he had to go to work. Three whole hours with no Sherlock in the flat, and the whole place relatively tidy for once.

This was unprecedented.

::

His morning of peaceful reading and blogging had made John feel very mellow, and more than one of his patients had commented on his good mood over the course of his afternoon. "You look like you're in love!" one elderly lady had offered as he checked her blood pressure. He had smiled pleasantly, but left the comment well alone.

The flat was still fairly quiet when he got in, no bags to fall over tonight, no stampeding flatmate, though there was a jumble of stuff on the kitchen table with a mirror propped up in the middle of it all. He had a look while he made some tea; it was mostly make up, some of which he recognised. Little jars of white and beige goo, those snappy palette things, a couple of lipstick tubes, big fluffy brushes and little sponge-on-a-stick things. Kirsty had really gone all out. He'd have to encourage Sherlock to disguise himself as a woman more often, if only to make sure it didn't all go to waste.

He could hear the man himself moving around in the bathroom, and went to sit in the living room and wait for him to come out. He couldn't even begin to imagine what Sherlock would look like in make up.

Sadly, he wasn't yet to know. Some ten minutes or so later, when John was in the middle of checking his various email accounts and reading through the comments on that morning's blog post, Sherlock emerged from the bathroom in his dressing gown, his pale face slightly pink as if freshly scrubbed.

"How did it go?" John asked.

Sherlock shrugged, patting at his hair with a towel. "The make up was interesting. We were served in the shop by an orange woman who couldn't get over _my_ skin tone sufficiently to be of any real help. Kirsty decided to take us somewhere else to get a particular foundation, but when the assistant there realised it was for me, she called us perverts and I asked to see the manager. Kirsty was quite upset."

John frowned. "Rightly so," he agreed. "Was the manager any help?"

"Well, once I told her how much stock the sales assistant had been stealing to sell at make up parties, and detailed how she'd been doing it, I believe she fired her. At the very least, they disappeared into the manager's office and somebody else was sent to help us. We got the foundation free of charge, of course."

"Oh well done," John said warmly. Sherlock preened a little and slung his towel over the back of the sofa, which was when John realised that something was different about his face.

"Ah, so you _did_ get your eyebrows done, then!"

"Yes. We decided on threading instead of plucking, though the salon did both. Everything else was wax though."

John nodded. Sherlock's bushy, untamed eyebrows had been reduced to neat arcs, smoothly following the shape of his eye sockets. They didn't look particularly out of place actually, as they weren't too thin. His face was as striking as ever. His jaw was shaved perfectly smooth and John could now...well, he couldn't quite _picture_ the woman that Sherlock would play, but he was beginning to see where she would come from.

Wait..._waxed_?

"When you say you got 'everything else' waxed...you aren't talking about your face, are you."

"No, of course not. I got my arms and legs done. And my chest. Kirsty says it will be smoother and last longer than shaving."

"Really?" John asked, leaning up in his chair to look at Sherlock's bare calves. It was true; they were as smooth and pale as porcelain.

"Yes. I decided for verisimilitude that I'd get everything done, actually. One never knows what will happen in the course of an investigation."

John gawped at him. "No! You _didn't_!"

He realised a second too late that that had sounded like a challenge, but before he could even open his mouth on the words 'No Sherlock, don't flash me', it was too late. Sherlock flourished open his dressing gown with a grin on his face and not a care in the world.

John had seen Sherlock naked a few times now, mostly in the course of tending to injuries, (and that one incident when he got dunked in a sewer and had to be stripped off and hosed down inside a hazmat tent) and can honestly say that the man is no less impressive nude than he is swishing about in his pristine suit and dramatic coat.

Now however...he was more _naked_ than he had been the previous times, without even the shield of the sparse hair around his genitals, and John almost felt dirty for looking. Sherlock's expression was quite proud though, as if he'd been the first person to get a thorough waxing and survive, so John made the effort to look closely enough that he could at least make an interesting comment.

Sherlock's skin looked so smooth, so pink, so...sore.

"Did it hurt much?" he asked casually.

"Oh goodness yes. I don't know how models and such cope with it, though Kirsty assured me it gets easier each time it's done."

"Is it, uh...is it still sore?" John prodded casually. Sherlock wouldn't admit to it if he came on too strong.

The question was greeted with a slight, derogative curl of lips, but Sherlock then obviously reconsidered and tilted his head. "Slightly," he admitted, looking down at himself.

Probably had too hot a shower, John thought. He'd had a girlfriend who'd made a similar mistake not that long ago.

"I'll see if I can find something with aloe in it, shall I?" he offered evenly, and went off up the stairs, trying not to walk as if he was highly aroused.

::

Okay, I think this is going quite well so far. What do you guys think?

A few little notes; I'm aware that much of the Sherlock fandom is American so I'll try to be considerate of you guys and girls. Boots is roughly the UK equivalent of Walgreens, a pharmacy but one that also sells all kinds of other stuff. I love Boots, they make great make up.

If I had the money, my entire wardrobe would be from Monsoon and Dickens and Jones. They make fantastic clothes in styles that tend not to follow fashion too closely. Sadly I can't afford to, so I will remain in my okay-ish bog standard clothes...for now!

If there are any British things I mention that people want clarification on, please let me know. I have no idea how much is general knowledge.

I don't lead a very varied life unfortunately, but I have at various times:

spent just a little bit too long playing with a breast form in a lingerie shop

tried to mimic the body language of a member of the oposite sex and found it a very eye-opening experience

owned a pair of 'practice' high heels which I tritted about drunkenly in for some time

And the line about Sherlock whipping his dressing gown open was the first one I wrote and eventually led to this whole story. Blame it.


	4. Rules of the Game

It wasn't until the next morning that John truly realised the extent of Sherlock and Kirsty's cosmetic shopping spree.

The top shelf of the bathroom cabinet, which had always been Sherlock's territory, had been crammed with hair products since John could remember. Over time though, the little bottles and tubes and sprays had begun a gradual invasion of the rest of the bathroom and, indeed, the rest of the flat, spreading and multiplying and taking over flat surfaces until John began to feel like Sherlock's hair was a third flatmate, a twirly dosser that didn't pull it's weight with the housework and left the bath drain clogged up.

Sherlock would huff and stick his nose in the air and claim that John, with his boring military haircut, couldn't possibly understand how much work it took to deal with curly hair, and always had a ready answer when John suggested that, as it was so much trouble, he could just cut it short.

Sherlock was vain though, that was the long and the short of it really. He was certainly good looking, and John had to admit that if he looked like Sherlock he may have become vain too. Life tended to be a bit easier for attractive people, from what he'd seen.

Anyway, even on the days that Sherlock spent sprawled on the sofa in his pyjamas, he didn't forgo, at the very least, a good fifteen-second-long _ksssshhhhh_ from a large aerosol can with Cyrillic lettering on it, followed by several minutes carefully crushing and twisting his curls into place with his fingers. John had watched this process in fascination more than once, standing in the bathroom doorway as Sherlock thought out loud at him, and while somewhat impressed, he'd never been more grateful for his own well-behaved, straight hair.

By Thursday morning though, the hair product invasion of the bathroom was complete. John had to pick his way carefully through enemy strongholds of little piles of boxes and bottles all over the floor, only to reach the sink and find two hairbrushes in it, one still with a shop tag attached to its handle and sweet Christ! was it really possible to pay _thirty five pounds_ for a hairbrush?

He opened the cabinet under the sink to find that even his very own territory, the bottom shelf, had been annexed. His poor little comb, shaving kit and toothpaste were shoved callously to one side, their personal space invaded by a large chrome hairdryer with an attachment that looked like part of an old television set on its nozzle.

Sherlock had money besides what they earned from the cases, John had always been sure of this, some sort of allowance or inheritance that kept him in designer suits and hazardous chemicals. If he wasn't careful, John was going to start insisting that the hair paid its fair share of the rent.

::

A long day at work due to another doctor being out at a conference had John feeling a bit tired and, if not actually grumpy, certainly rather less patient than usual by the time he got home. The fact that both Sherlock and Kirsty, ensconced in armchairs, went suspiciously silent the moment he walked in the door, didn't do anything to make him feel more relaxed.

"What?" he asked, eyeing them.

"John, we've been talking about your role on Saturday. Sherlock told me he hasn't actually given you much detail," Kirsty began, sounding a bit uncertain.

Sherlock snorted. "John never needs much in the way of detail. He John cut him off.

"John never _gets_ much in the way of detail, no matter how much he'd like it. Sherlock, Kirsty's right. This is a more complicated situation than we're used to and I'm not such a natural actor as you are. It would actually be nice to know a bit more." He dropped onto the sofa and settled with his elbows on his knees, and watched Sherlock's face closely enough to see the split second of chagrin and rueful realisation there.

Message received, quite painlessly which was good.

"Go on Sherlock," Kirsty encouraged, and Sherlock nodded at her and leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers.

"John and I will be portraying a married couple," he began, eyes sliding over to John to check he was listening with sufficient attention. "We will say married about eight years, which is roughly long enough for the relationship to have soured and for patterns of abuse to set in, not yet so long that anyone has intervened with sufficient persuasive skill to convince me to leave him. John is frustrated and dissatisfied with his career and his marriage, which has allowed his innate cruelty to come to the surface. I have low self esteem due to being bullied during adolescence for my height and pronounced Adam's apple. This has left me lacking the confidence to resist abuse and risk the harbour of my marriage."

Kirsty raised her eyebrows, though John wasn't quite sure what she was surprised at. Possibly the level of detail, which he himself had long become acclimated to.

"So, you need me to get into this...character then," he said, and Sherlock nodded thoughtfully.

"I realise it won't be easy for you John, you aren't naturally a cruel man, and I've observed you have some rather...chivalrous tendencies when it comes to women."

John couldn't help but glance towards Kirsty at that, flattered that she was nodding agreement of Sherlock's assessment of him.

"Still," Sherlock continued, "You've worked as a doctor in many contexts over the course of your career. You've surely encountered a victim of domestic abuse at some point. Possibly even the abusive party. Surely you'll be able to draw from those experiences."

And sometimes John really hated Sherlock for that prim little '_there we go, everything's sorted out_' tone he sometimes spoke with. Sherlock was studying his face carefully now. Best to say it rather than let him deduce it, John decided.

"I encountered it enough of it in my family when I was a kid," he admitted.

Kirsty's face flooded with sympathy and discomfort, while Sherlock's sharpened. No, John's confession hadn't been enough to head off the deductions at all, had it.

"Not your father or mother," Sherlock stated confidently after a few seconds. "Uncle?"

John sighed and rubbed his hands over his face, then nodded. "My Dad's younger brother," he admitted. "He was awful to my auntie, didn't even try and hide it from us. The public got the benevolent act, but not family."

"And your father did nothing to put a stop to it, even though he could have."

"That's right. I was furious with him."

"You liked your aunt?"

John nodded. "I still do. She divorced him and went to live with her brother. I stayed in touch, so did Mum. Not a bad ending, I suppose. Not the worst."

Sherlock nodded, Kirsty smiled uncertainly at John, and there was silence for a moment. Then Sherlock smacked his palms down on his thighs and grinned.

"Perfect then John. You'll have plenty to draw from. I'm sure you'll make a very good abusive husband."

Kirsty and John both glared at him, but Sherlock continued.

"And people will be only too happy to be convinced, I doubt you'll even have to be that explicit about it. Despite what statistics may say, people like to believe the 'little Hitler' stereotype. A short man with a temper and a cowed spouse, and every onlooker will be cheerfully and stupidly putting two and two together to make nineteen. It'll be fine John."

"Can we not compare me to Hitler, if you don't mind," John gritted out. He thought about saying a bit more, but wasn't sure he could keep his vocabulary clean. And what did it say about him that the person he felt so strongly for was also the only one who could make him so angry with so little effort?

"It wasn't a direct comparison John, don't take offense," Sherlock said airily, and rose from his seat.

"Sherlock!" Kirsty snapped, but Sherlock was already off in the kitchen, fussing about with some of the pile of things on the table.

"It's okay," John told her. "I'm...sort of used to him."

The truth of it was, John had always been very aware of how short his own fuse was. He'd always nursed a fear of being like his Uncle Philip, or like the man he was going to be posing as at Sherlock's side. Maybe that was part of the reason for, as Sherlock put it, his chivalrous tendencies. Overcompensation, for fear of what might happen if he didn't.

He glanced up at Sherlock through the kitchen doorway; Sherlock had his back to him and both hands in a large paper bag that sat on the table, apparently fascinated by the contents.

One of John's worst moments, one of the ones that he'd remember with a cringe of shame for the rest of his life, had been the time he'd hit Sherlock. A priest/mugging victim had been one of Sherlock's more mystifying ideas for a cover, but for his own reasons he'd felt it essential enough that John would have to be goaded into hitting him. And John, tired and annoyed and having over-estimated how good he'd become at letting Sherlock's insults slide off him, had been _goaded_.

Goaded so far that he'd not only given Sherlock, his best friend, that very dramatic bruise-mottled cut on his cheekbone, a cut that hadn't faded for weeks, he'd also struck him again and again and even choked him! John had barely been able to believe it afterwards.

Sherlock brushed the whole mess off of course, wouldn't do to show a weakness, oh no. But the next day, long after the drugs had worn off, all the ice was gone from the freezer and Sherlock had surreptitiously squashed his sandwich flat with a side plate at lunch time, unable to open his jaw wide enough to bite into it because of the bruising, and John had watched him and felt his guts roil with shame.

God, he could barely bring himself to think about it.

Sherlock emerged from the kitchen carrying the bag, and tucked it just inside the door to his bedroom before coming back to his seat. Kirsty was glaring at him still, but he ignored her.

"We got my dress," he told John brightly. "I think you'll be impressed. And I'm going to get you a suit, I decided."

"Why?" John asked, his annoyance coming through in his voice more than he'd have liked. "I've got a perfectly good suit. Even you approved of it."

"Yes, but this is an _evening_ event," Sherlock replied. "The suit you have is _day_ wear. You're getting a new one. You don't have to like it."

John sighed. That said it all, didn't it. Sherlock got back to his feet and went into the kitchen, gathered up a few things, then headed off to the bathroom, presumably to claim some more territory in the cabinet. John leaned back in his seat and shook his head.

He felt Kirsty's gaze on him for a few moments, before she got up and came to sit next to him on the sofa.

"Is he always like that?" she asked worriedly.

"Yeah. He's...he's brilliant, but he has a blind spot where people's feelings are concerned."

"It didn't seem like a blind spot to me," Kirsty said softly, glancing in the direction Sherlock had gone. "It seems more like willful disregard."

"Well, I see how you could come to that conclusion, yeah..." John found he couldn't really argue, and ran his tongue over his lips before he continued. "He likes to think that it isn't important. He says he only needs to know about emotional reactions as far as they're relevant to his cases, so he...ah..."

"He's safe," Kirsty finished. "I knew a man like that once, I think."

John nodded weakly, and they sat there like that for a couple of minutes, awkward silence with their arms brushing together.

"You um..." she began after a while.

"Go on," John said, turning to look at her.

"You're bisexual, right? Sherlock said."

He nodded, too used to Sherlock telling everyone he met all about his personal life to be cross with him.

"But you...you're at peace with being attracted to other men, and to sleeping with them. But falling for one is still a bit of a shock, isn't it?"

John felt his mouth open, but no sound came out. Kirsty gave him a little, embarrassed smile and he abruptly felt quite glad that she'd turned him down.

"I...er, you're very perceptive," he told her. "You'd give Sherlock a run for his money if you turned to detecting."

And suddenly they were both sniggering, their shoulders bumping together.

"He told me about all the times he got stabbed," Kirsty blurted between the giggles. "I think I'll stick with hair dressing!"

And that was it, John was laughing out loud, gasping for breath. The whole thing was just...it was so...

"What _are_ you doing?" Sherlock asked, reappearing holding the toilet brush.

Kirsty whooped and buried her face in John's shoulder, and John was laughing too hard to do anything other than drape one arm around her and wheeze.

Sherlock continued to stare at them until they began to calm down, then wrinkled his nose at them, which only served to set Kirsty off again.

"Oh God, I'd better go," she chuckled, getting unsteadily to her feet. "I'm meeting my Graham later and I've got to pop home and change. You two have a good evening."

John got up to open the door for her and she pecked him on the cheek as she went by, which was nice.

When he turned back to the room, Sherlock was still holding the brush aloft and staring at him.

"What was that?" he asked.

"What?"

"She kissed you!"

"Yes. Some people kiss me. Sometimes."

"Not often though."

"Oh shut up, Sherlock!"

::

I hope that nobody thinks that I am trivialising the issue of domestic abuse in this story, because I really do understand how dreadful and damaging it is and the last thing I want to do is make people feel that I'm brushing it off as unimportant by not fully exploring it.

What I am trying to do is write a light, fairly comedic story and so I've not included a lot of the angst and detail that I could have used. If this offends or upsets anyone then I am truly sorry.

Somebody asked me when in canon this story is set, and I don't think it is. I seem to have created a little alternate timeline in my head-canon where, at the end of ThoB when Moriarty is let out of his cell, he slips on a puddle of water that had dripped off Mycroft's umbrella, cracks his head on the floor and dies. So this story takes place some time after that.

I like this universe as it doesn't make me cry.


	5. Impending Doom

Recalling Kirsty's announcement that she and Sherlock were going to 'finalise' Sherlock's look on Friday, John made his way home from the surgery slowly, fully expecting to walk in to find an argument in progress. He couldn't say for sure _why_ he expected it, but he'd known Sherlock for long enough that he was prepared to put it down to survivor's instinct.

Despite his good record for argument prediction however, he was disappointed. He entered the flat to find it empty. They must have still been out buying last minute things or some such. That or Kirsty had snapped and killed him.

Well, it wasn't completely empty. Hanging from the top edge of the kitchen archway was the wooden coat hanger that Sherlock liked to put his greatcoat on, empty as he was out. Next to it hung another wooden hanger, this one occupied by a very similar coat. Similar fabric, similar colour, same length and roughly the same cut. This one though was a little narrower in the shoulders, fuller around the chest and sort of..._nipped_ at the waist. The thread that picked out the button hole was pink instead of red.

So; it seemed that Sherlock's coat had a girlfriend, and though John was very happy for it, he was also more than a little unsettled.

He wasn't sure quite why that sight set him off so badly, perhaps it was due to seeing something so close to being familiar and yet so out of place. Whatever the reason, all the little worries that had been percolating in his brain for the last few days suddenly coalesced into something very much like fear.

Oh God. It was _tomorrow_! How had Friday come around so quickly? Had it really only been on Sunday that he'd met Kirsty and heard Sherlock's plan?

It really was tomorrow that he would be doing..._it_!

Which _it_ would that be John? Oh, take your pick! There's a whole smorgasbord of _it_!

There was the part where he had to go to a high society party, dressed in a new suit picked by none other than his vain flatmate. (It would be about ten minutes before somebody pointed at him and announced 'Hey, you're not posh at all! You interloper!' And he'd be given the bum's rush out of the place. In a too-tight jacket, probably.)

Then he had to convince the many, many total strangers also attending the party that he was said flatmate's husband, and as if that wasn't enough, that he was _abusing_ him. Her! God!

And that was another problem. He had to stay in character sufficiently to keep in mind that Sherlock was supposed to be a woman, not to mention that he needed to deal more immediately with the fact that his flatmate was dressed as a _fucking woman_! It had been days but John couldn't picture the eventual result as being any better than a uni student dressed in drag for a birthday pub crawl. He wasn't sure what he'd be struggling with more; his lurking attraction or his laughter.

Oh and yes, last but not least, he was going to have to cope with his attraction to his mad bastard of a best friend while pretending to be married to him.

In public.

Surrounded by strangers.

_Posh_ strangers.

He thumped down onto the sofa, head in his hands, and let out a soft moan. The sounds of Mrs Hudson's telly drifted up through the floorboards, breaking him out of his reverie to some degree, and he raised his head to have another look at the coat. He seemed to have calmed down; it didn't look half so out of place now.

It only occurred to John now that a normal man would have been more frightened of the fact that he was going to spend tomorrow evening trying to tempt a serial killer into targeting him.

John Watson, however, was made of sterner stuff.

As he got to his feet, he spotted an ornate card among the detritus on the coffee table and picked it up. It was the invitation for the party, provided by one of Sherlock's small army of grateful ex-clients. It was discomfortingly posh in itself; heavy cream card stock with curly lettering in gold. The details of the hotel and the times were on there, as was a brief note about the charity the event was in aid of, something to do with preserving an Edwardian theatre in North Warwickshire. Dress was listed as 'evening casual' which John was just going to have to assume Sherlock understood, some code which John, left to his own devices, would have translated as 'whatever you wore to work, but with black shoes instead of brown'. That probably wasn't what they were hoping for.

He put the card back on the table and went upstairs to his room, only to find another surprise on his bed.

Evidently Sherlock had found time in his busy schedule of buying hair crap and annoying Kirsty to acquire a suit for John. It lay on the bed inside a clear plastic cover with a zip up the front, neat on its hanger, and he carefully kept his gaze averted from the labels, lest he realise how much money it had cost and panic. A new, carefully folded white shirt lay next to it, and Sherlock had also taken his best tie, the one with the regimental stripes that he usually only wore with his dress blues, and put it on top of the shirt.

John felt vaguely affronted by the implication that he couldn't be trusted to put an outfit together, then he thought back to his own interpretation of the dress code on the invite and ultimately decided to be grateful for Sherlock's dress sense.

He unzipped the cover and took the suit out, studying it for a moment before deciding to try it on. It was just a black suit really, not a dinner jacket or anything, nothing really different about it as far as he could tell. The fabric was of good quality though, heavy and smooth, and it hung around him well as he slipped it on. Heaven alone knew how Sherlock had found out John's measurements. Probably just looked at him and deduced them.

John decided against putting the new shirt on, worried somewhere deep down that he'd crumple it irretrievably before its big day, and pulled the jacket on over the pale blue shirt he'd worn to work. There was a pair of well-polished black loafers on the floor of his wardrobe, the best looking pair of shoes he owned, and he slid his feet into them and turned to look in the full length mirror on the back of the wardrobe door.

He looked...actually, he looked quite good.

He was happy to admit that he wasn't the best looking man that ever walked the planet, and he was at peace with being just a little bit plain. He'd always been able to brush himself up well though, and this was no exception. The trousers hung perfectly, making his legs looks just slightly longer in proportion to the rest of his admittedly short frame. The jacket hugged his waist at the sides, but was a little more forgiving at the front, allowing for the wee bit of weight he carried there from before his physio-therapist had let him go back to his gym routine. He looked sophisticated and smooth and...

And nothing like himself. Nothing Like John Hamish Watson at all.

Had Sherlock done that on purpose, he wondered? Possibly. It certainly wouldn't hurt John's efforts as an actor, to know that he looked so very...not John-like. 'It can make such an impact on your attitude,' Kirsty had said, 'you know, looking like you _feel_'. Maybe if John could get himself into a place where he could feel the way he looked...

He started slightly as he realised that he had changed his posture just a bit, stood up straighter, but not like his usual parade rest stance. He hadn't even thought about doing it, but maybe that was what he needed to do. Maybe he could just focus on this man he was going to be masquerading as and...let him be. Let him take over.

He stared into the mirror again and straightened his spine, pushed his shoulders back and stared challengingly at himself. A smooth, confident bulldog of a man, self-assured and certain that the people around him are either too stupid to notice how he treats his wife, or too scared of him to try and do anything. A hateable creature, completely at ease with what his marriage has become.

John could almost see him in the mirror. Maybe he wouldn't make a complete hash of this after all.

Downstairs the door opened and John heard Sherlock's familiar footsteps crossing the living room. He changed out of the suit and put it back on the hanger, placing it in his wardrobe rather than in its cover. Putting comfy jeans and a jumper on, he went downstairs to find Sherlock lounging on the sofa, engrossed in a very small, very thick paperback book.

"Alright?" John asked as he crossed the room to the kitchen.

Sherlock just grunted at him, grunted again at the offer of tea, which John took as a yes.

When John settled in his armchair, cuppa in hand, some minutes later, Sherlock was still completely absorbed by his book. John leaned down and craned his neck slightly to see the cover and Sherlock, noticing this, turned it just enough that John could make out the title.

'The Ultimate Book of Baby Names' the cover pronounced, on a background of pink and blue hearts, and John stared blankly at it for some moments.

"Something you'd like to announce?" he asked, fighting a giggle.

Sherlock tore his eyes away from the pages and narrowed them at John. "Very funny. I'm choosing my name."

"Ah, okay, I see."

"Kirsty says that it's very important to get it right."

"Yes, I can understand that." John sipped his tea and silence reigned in the living room for a few blessed minutes.

"Bertha," Sherlock said out loud, and his eyes darted around the room thoughtfully as he repeated it to himself a few times.

"No, doesn't suit you," John told him, and Sherlock gave him a moderately put out look, then nodded half-hearted agreement and went back to searching.

"Am I to have a new name for this?" John asked.

"No, I think John is fine," Sherlock replied distractedly. "Phoebe?"

"A bit...fussy," John decided. Sherlock _hmphed_ at him.

"Where'd you get the book from?"

"Library."

"Is that where you've been all afternoon?"

"No, I popped in after Kirsty left. I've been downstairs watching taped episodes of 'What Not To Wear' with Mrs Hudson."

"Christ," John muttered.

"Awful," Sherlock agreed. "Though not uninformative," and he ran his eyes over John's jumper in a particularly snide sort of way. "Alcyone?"

"Too exotic."

"It's ancient Greek!"

"Exactly. Did Kirsty tell you to use one of these books?"

"She said it might help," Sherlock sighed as he righted himself on the sofa. "Though it doesn't seem to. None of them really fit."

"Did she use a book like that for her own name?"

Sherlock shrugged. "She said she had a lot of trouble choosing. I suppose it's an unusual situation, being given the opportunity to choose one's own name as an adult. I can't quite imagine why she picked the one she did though."

"Oh?" John asked, frowning. "Why not?"

Sherlock scoffed. "Come on, John. It's such a childish name!"

"Well, I've known plenty of children called Kirsty, who have grown up into women called Kirsty perfectly well."

"You know what I mean," Sherlock said airily, and John sighed. This was one of those arguments he'd never win, no matter how good the point he was making was. Sherlock, for whatever reason, had decided that Kirsty was a childish name, and there would be no moving him.

"Think about it though," John tried after some minutes of quiet contemplation. "Can you think of a name that would suit her better?"

Sherlock frowned, flipped through the pages of his book briefly, then frowned again and shook his head.

"That's a fair point John," he admitted. "Perhaps I'm going about this the wrong way."

"Well, how are you going about it now, exactly?" John asked, crossing the room to join him on the sofa and looking over his shoulder at the book.

"I've been going through and looking at the meanings, trying to find one that fits."

"Well that's...yeah, that probably isn't going to work, is it."

"Why not?"

"Sherlock, your current given name is something to do with having very short hair, isn't it? Have you ever in your life shaved your head?"

Sherlock's only response was to give him a disgusted look.

"Well, there you are then. Maybe you should do what Kirsty did and just...try to find one that fits."

Sherlock nodded thoughtfully and set the book down on his thigh, then leaned his head back against the wall behind the sofa and stared intently at the ceiling, thinking hard. John tore his eyes away from the attractive line of Sherlock's pale throat, and went into the kitchen to see what he could throw together for dinner.

::

Sherlock ate with one hand, holding the book open with the other and deftly flicking through the pages. He didn't seem to be making any progress, though he'd occasionally read one out.

"Norah?"

"Mmm...bit old fashioned perhaps."

"...Aurelie?"

"Might be tricky to pronounce. You'd end up getting called 'Orally'."

"...Imogen?"

"Hm...quite nice. Put that one the maybe list."

After a few minutes of silence, which John spent surreptitiously piling the empty dishes in front of Sherlock in the faint hope that he'd take the hint to do the washing up, Sherlock tore his eyes away from the book and smiled.

"I did work out a surname for us," he said.

"Oh?" John asked. "We're not going to be 'the Watsons' then?"

"No, it's perfect. A name that is absolutely commensurate with a dysfunctional marriage."

"Go on."

"Anderson."

John laughed and Sherlock grinned broadly at him, an expression that John was sure only a few very select people had ever seen, and it made him feel like there was nothing bad at all about unrequited feelings, not when he and Sherlock could sit at the table in their kitchen and laugh together.

Sherlock was in such a cheery mood by that point that it took only a bit of prodding to make him start the washing up, and by the time he got distracted and wandered off there was only a baking dish and a saucepan left, so John took care of those himself. When he went back into the living room, Sherlock was back on the sofa, glaring at his right thumnail.

"John, come and do this for me."

John sighed. "Do what?"

"I couldn't do it properly on my right hand with my left hand, so I tried it the other way round. But it was still a mess," Sherlock replied cryptically, and John went over to look out of sheer curiosity. His flatmate held a tiny glass bottle in one hand and a thin brush in the other. There was a broad dark purple strip down the centre of each thumbnail, and quite a lot of spots of colour on the skin around them.

"I don't know how to do it either," John told him. "I've never painted anybody's nails."

"No, but you're good at fiddly things," Sherlock told him. "Remember when you fixed my air displacement pipette?"

Apparently that was all the discussion Sherlock was prepared to put up with on the matter, because he reached up and tugged John onto the sofa by one of his belt loops (leaving a smudge of purple on his jeans, John would later discover) and pushed the tiny bottle and brush into his hands. John sighed again, wrinkled his nose at the rotten smell of the nail polish, then dunked the brush and reached for Sherlock's outstretched hand.

It wasn't too tricky, actually. Sherlock's nails were a little longer than usual and had been neatly filed into shape, the cuticles tidied up, presumably by Kirsty. The polish went on smoothly, one neat stroke down the middle of each nail and then a little touch up at the edges. With his free hand, Sherlock picked up the book again and went back to reading names out.

"Andrea."

"Not bad...maybe."

"...Petra."

"I can't think of anything but the dog on Blue Peter when I hear that, sorry."

"...Frances."

"A bit...I think we'd best stay away from the androgynous sort of names. You're going to be a bit on the fence anyway."

"Fair point. Hmm..."

"Why'd you choose this colour?" John asked after a few minutes of silence. He'd finished the nails of Sherlock's left hand and they looked fairly good. A little smudge here and there, but nothing they couldn't tidy up with some acetone. When he noticed that John had stopped painting, Sherlock raised his hand and had a good long look at his fingertips, then smiled at John and turned in his seat to offer the other hand.

"What do you think of the colour?" he asked. John hadn't really taken much note of it so far, just concentrated on keeping it tidy. Now though he had a proper look at Sherlock's finished nails and thought it looked quite good. It was a warm shade of purple, closer to a plum-colour, which suited Sherlock's wintery complexion.

"It's nice," he said. "Suits your skin. Is the rest of your make-up this colour?"

"Some of it. Kirsty did my colours for me."

"Mrs Hudson would approve," John noted, and Sherlock grinned at him again before turning his attention back to the pages of his book.

"Apparently my colours are blue and purple, but I have to keep then to subdued shades, no turquoise or violet."

"Hmm," John murmured, carefully navigating a jagged bit of cuticle with the brush. Nearly done.

"John..." Sherlock said in soft, excited tones. "John, I've got it!"

John finished the last nail, and Sherlock whipped his hand away to wave energetically. "That's it!" he announced.

"What?"

"Violet!"

It took John a moment to catch up, but when Sherlock dramatically threw the book down onto the coffee table and said it a few more times, he got it.

"Oh! For your name, right."

"What do you think?" Sherlock asked, jumping to his feet and putting his hands grandly on his hips. "Violet Anderson!"

"It sounds good," John agreed. "It'll suit you as well, I think."

Sherlock's eyes were far away, and John could almost hear the _click_ as the new name got slotted into the persona he'd been cultivating over the past few days. "Violet and John Anderson," he said under his breath, and John nodded, unable to stop smiling.

Abruptly, Sherlock snapped out of it, glanced around the room, then turned his eyes on John and...his face...it was like the other day when he'd been mimicking Kirsty's posture. It was like some...otherness, some non-Sherlock person, was residing in his features, and he stepped towards the sofa and reached one hand out to John, positioned as if he expected it to be kissed.

"Violet Anderson, _such_ a pleasure to meet you," Sherlock said.

But it wasn't his voice. This voice was low and throaty and soft, not a feminine voice, but very much a woman's voice and every bit as rich and addictive as Sherlock's usual tones. John could only stare, his mouth hanging open.

"This is going to work out just perfectly, I think," Sherlock announced, suddenly and jarringly Sherlock again. And with that, he plucked his bottle of nail polish from John's fingers and sauntered off to his bedroom.

'I'm really in trouble,' John thought to himself.

::

Tomorrow's the big day! Woo! What will John do?

A few words on British stuff;

What Not to Wear was a popular series in which two snippy, bullying, hypocritical women advised people on their fashion choices by making fun of them. I hated that programme and if I ever meet either or both of the presenters, a shit-storm of librarian-style kung fu will be brought down upon their heads.

Blue Peter is a long running BBC children's magazine show. There are usually several presenters, and also several pets which are used to show children how to care for animals, and have included cats, dogs, tortoises, and most famously a lovely mongrel called Petra. For a delightful retro laugh, go and look up 'Blue Peter elephant' on Youtube.

No offense to anybody whose names were mentioned but discarded. The names that Sherlock comes up with while he's going by meanings all mean something like 'bright' or 'quick', because he isn't known for his modesty. I was originally going to call Kirsty Violet, after Violet Hunter from my favourite ACD story, 'The Copper Beeches'. I decided the name suited Sherlock better though, and Kirsty is right just as she is.

And John is doomed.


	6. Time to Get Dressed

Saturday dawned cool and sunny, and John was awoken by the light glinting in through the gap in the curtains, gilding his hair and gently illuminating his face.

The light was a bastard.

John had been having a perfectly lovely lie-in, ignoring the world at large, busily pretending that this was _not_ Saturday and that tonight would _not_ be the night he had to...

Yeah, that.

He managed to roll over enough to look at the clock and groaned. It was only a quarter past eight. He'd hoped to sleep a bit later, as Sherlock had kept him awake until quite late last night going on and on about whether or not he should paint his toenails, regardless of the fact that nobody would be able to see them ("It's part of the character John!") but it seemed that that wasn't to be.

But he'd had enough sleep to...well, to not be a nervous wreck, so he got up and did his exercises (100 each of press ups and sit ups along with plenty of stretches, the routine he'd steadily built up ever since his physio therapist had given him the all clear to do so), and finding that Sherlock was still in his room, treated himself to a very long shower. He didn't bother shaving as he preferred to do it in the afternoon when he was going out of an evening, due to his five o'clock shadow's tendency to show up a couple of hours late. He was standing in front of the sink with a towel wrapped around his hips, combing his damp hair into place when Sherlock barged in, screwdriver in hand (he routinely used it to push the lock on the bathroom door out of place), shoved John unceremoniously to one side and inserted himself into the cupboard under the sink up to his shoulders.

"What are you doing?" John asked, glaring as hard as he could at the middle of Sherlock's back.

"I need some of my things John," came the muffled reply, and John heard what could only be his toothbrush clatter onto the bathroom floor.

"You couldn't have waited five minutes until I was finished?"

Sherlock emerged from the cupboard and crouched on the floor to push some of the little containers he'd picked out into the pockets of his dressing gown. He eyed John's head. "I don't think you've got five minutes worth of work left, have you? Thirty seconds at most on the hair, you'll leave shaving until later because you're going out, and you never spend more than a minute and fifteen seconds looking at your torso in the mirror and pulling faces about how much muscle tone you lost and how long it's taking you to get it back-"

"Shut up!"

Sherlock settled on his knees, beaming up at John in the way that he knew always made John forgive his bitchy jokes...and John suddenly became very aware that he was only dressed in a towel.

"Are you finished?" he asked irritably.

"Well, I'd like to use the shower at some point today."

"Bugger off and let me finish my turn then, you mad bastard."

Sherlock snorted and rolled nimbly to his feet, leaving the door wide open as he left, just to be annoying.

'I must be out of my fucking mind,' John thought to himself. Still, as soon as Sherlock was out of sight, he found himself smiling and couldn't stop.

::

John spent the day making himself busy. He tidied up and did a bit of housework, cooked them both a nutritious lunch (which Sherlock would only agree to sit down and eat after John hid the big hairdryer and threatened it with death), then in the afternoon he took his laptop down to Mrs Hudson's and helped her do her monthly finances on a spreadsheet. Sherlock had made the spreadsheet, but John had had to tell him what columns it needed and how the formulae should add up, his posh friend's lifestyle having never led him to count pennies.

He'd actually been really glad for the excuse to get out of the flat. Sherlock was like a child on Christmas eve, charging about the place frenetically and talking a mile a minute, all 'how long until Kirsty gets here?' and 'how long until I need to put my dress on?' and 'I've chipped my nail John, do it again! Do it again!'

At four o'clock, John was having tea and biscuits with Mrs Hudson and hearing all about the latest goings on with the cast of Emmerdale, when the doorbell rang and he got up to answer it. It was Kirsty, armed with a very large jute carrier bag and a paper cup of coffee which smelled strong enough to run a tractor on. John politely introduced her to Mrs Hudson, then waved her off up the stairs.

"Aren't you going to go and watch it all happen?" Mrs Hudson asked him.

"No, Sherlock wants to keep it to himself so he can surprise me with the finished article. I think he's been watching too many of those makeover programmes."

Mrs Hudson laughed at that. She was perfectly nice about the whole thing, actually, and seemed completely unfazed by her favourite tenant going out and about dressed as a woman. She let John sit with her in her flat for the next couple of hours, watching the telly and chatting, pretending not to notice the odd noises coming from upstairs, and John was pleased to find that her comfortable, undemanding company was very effectively keeping his apprehensions at bay.

They had to leave for the party at half seven, so at about half six John thanked Mrs Hudson and set off up the stairs. He opened the door tentatively, but all the activity so far seemed to have been confined to Sherlock's room. He could hear them talking and some sort of clinking noise, but he decided he could do without knowing what they were up to. One thing was for sure, he was never going to look at a beautiful woman the same way again, not now that he knew how much work they had to put in to looking so good.

He went back up to his room and carefully laid the suit and shirt out on his bed, adding underwear, socks and shoes too. Then he took off and put away the clothes he was wearing, put on his dressing gown and went into the bathroom to begin his own grooming routine. Quick shower, just to rinse off the little exertions of the day, then a good close shave and a few minutes spent bullying his hair into what he thought of as 'dress'. He knew that he tended to look a bit more severe, not to mention more formal, with his hair off his forehead, so he parted it neatly to one side and smoothed both sides back from his face, adding just a touch of his rarely used gel to keep it in place. He reached for his usual aftershave, then paused, hand stretched out towards the cabinet.

Sherlock's attention to detail was possibly starting to rub off on him, which couldn't be good. But John _Anderson_ was not the sort of man who would wear aftershave balm purchased by a sister as a half-hearted Christmas present and which came in a gift pack along with a bottle of shower gel. No, not John Anderson with his flawless suit and his impeccably dressed wife.

John sorted through all the little heaps of Sherlock's stuff until he found the tiny, pricey bottle of cologne that Sherlock wore on the rare occasions when he would dress to impress. Usually, John wouldn't dare to use his flatmate's stuff without asking, but he was sure it wouldn't be a problem. It wasn't like he'd use much. When the cap came out of the bottle, the scent rushed up to greet John like an old friend, and suddenly he was crammed in the back of a taxi between Sherlock and their witness. Hiding in a corner of a restaurant's larder, hand across his mouth trying not to laugh as Sherlock put his foot through an egg carton. Having an argument in the kitchen after an embarrassing evening at the theatre. It was shocking how scent evoked memories, how clearly they came to him.

So perhaps, as well as helping him get into character, as well as helping him divorce himself from his normality, a little dab of this stuff would give him...perhaps some comfort, when things got tough. Some sweet smelling moral support.

He shook a few scant drops of the cologne into his hands, then patted it onto his freshly shaved skin, enjoying the invigoratingly sharp bite of it in his pores.

Sorted in the bathroom, he went back up to his room and put on his clothes, including his better wristwatch and the smart silver pin that went with the regimental tie. He avoided looking in the mirror until he was fully dressed, something in him recognising the value of Sherlock's idea, that of not seeing the stages in order to get the full effect of the finished article. But, finally done and smoothing his sleeves into place, John Watson pulled open the door of his wardrobe and looked in the mirror to see...

John Anderson.

Ex-soldier, businessman, husband, abuser...what else besides?

He'd find out.

::

The living room was still empty when John got back downstairs, but he could hear voices from Sherlock's bedroom. Raised voices in fact, and though he couldn't quite make out words, he could tell that Sherlock's tone was the disparaging one that he used to win arguments through emotional manipulation. It sounded like Kirsty was holding her own, but it wouldn't be long before she'd had enough, no matter who won.

John went into the kitchen and, after a few false starts, found the corner where he'd hid his bottle of good whiskey. He wasn't actually sure if Sherlock had genuinely failed to find it or if he'd simply exhausted the entertainment value of messing with John's belongings, but John was starting to wonder if he was better at hiding things than he'd ever previously thought. He poured a generous shot of the liquor into a glass, added just a little touch of water to help it go down smoothly, and carried it into the corridor to wait outside Sherlock's door.

Perfect timing; Kirsty came barrelling out with a face like thunder, and John was in a perfect spot to simply reach out and slot the glass into her hand. She gave him a grateful look for a brief second before throwing her head back and knocking back the shot like a pro.

"Nice one," John told her.

"Thanks," she replied, only a little hoarse, handing him back the glass. "I don't know how you bloody cope, I really don't. You must have the patience of a saint."

"I have a good imagination and membership of a firing range. That's all I need," John told her, and she laughed charmingly, equilibrium apparently restored.

"You will be impressed though," she told him in hushed tones. "He's really thrown himself into it. How are you doing? With the acting, I mean?"

"Well, like I said before, Sherlock's better at it than me. I think that as long as I've got him to react to, I'll be okay."

She nodded at him, then gestured him towards her so she could reach up and quickly rummage with his hair before stroking the strands back into place with her fingers. "That's better," she said.

"There's smoke coming from somewhere!" Sherlock called from inside the room. "Kirsty? I said there's-"

"Alright!" Kirsty yelled back. "Once more into the breach, eh?" she said to John with a smile, and slipped back into the room.

There was a coughing sound, a splash, a bit of swearing...followed by relative peace.

John went off to the kitchen to make tea.

::

At a quarter past seven, not long before the taxi arrived, John was starting to get a bit twitchy. He'd had his tea and tried to read the paper, but was too easily distracted by a combination of curiosity, confused emotions and performance anxiety. The telly lasted a bit longer than the paper, but eventually he'd had to switch that off too and ended up pacing the living room agitatedly. The sounds of movement of feet, movement of objects, and various small impacts had not lessened over in Sherlock's bedroom, and regardless of his desire to see the finished effect, he was almost tempted to go and tell them to hurry. He hated being late.

He was on his way back over to the window (twenty seventh circuit of the room, if he'd been counting, which he hadn't), when he heard the door creak open and, a moment later, Kirsty popped her head into the living room and grinned at him.

"We're finished," she told him.

And he knew he should respond with something other than a blank stare because he was just being rude, but he _couldn't_. Because he could hear those heel-clicks coming along the corridor towards them and he could count the seconds until Sherlock was in view and then...

There was Violet.

Violet...wasn't beautiful. Not pretty either, really, her face too hard-boned, her hands and feet large and ungainly. But it would take the average observer some considerable time to notice this, as striking and graceful as she was. John couldn't tear his eyes away from her. It was a struggle to take it all in.

The clothes were safe territory, and he ran his eyes over them first, his brain reasoning out the choices Kirsty had made in a way that would have made Sherlock proud. The fussy, high heeled shoes were just a bit too much, just ever so slightly over-ornate, and they somehow diminished the length of the feet nestled inside them. The eyecatching Pandora (fake?) bracelets around both wrists performed the same act of camoflage for the hands. Thin, dark tights covered the long legs. A beaded choker-like necklace rested just above the collar bone, a longer loop of silver chain hanging to mid chest below it.

And the dress...it was perfect. Black, as John had already known, with long baggy sleeves made of sheer fabric and gathered at the cuffs, a wide collar showing a considerable expense of pale shoulder (shoulders that were somehow diminished in breadth by the uncanny optical illusion of a thin lacy trim), a snugly fitted bodice that flowed into a flared knee length skirt, fluffed out by several layers of fine net.

Perfect.

Her figure was smooth and lean, from the modest curves of her breasts, to her trim waist, to her hips hidden under the shape of the skirt. Sherlock's curly hair was evidently long enough, when ironed out straight, to give Violet a short, crisply cut bob that skimmed her jaw, the rounded shape of the hairstyle disguising the leanness of her face and making much of her long, elegant neck. There was deep grey make up on her eyelids, along with a thick line of black around the edges, and her lips were the same shade as her nails; juicy, succulent plum.

Violet smiled at him, the knowing, teasing smile of a woman who has caught her husband staring at her like they were still honeymooners.

John made a noise. He wasn't quite sure what the noise actually was, or what he'd intended it to sound like, but he suspected it may have been some of his internal organs collapsing.

"Impressed?" Kirsty asked, and it broke the spell enough for John to nod his head energetically, not yet ready to trust his ability to make words.

Violet, or possibly Sherlock, looked smug.

"It turned out a tad bit better than you were expecting, didn't it John," she said in those smooth, smoky tones, and John managed; "Yes."

Actually, it was a relief in some ways. He'd been worried that he'd find Sherlock more attractive as a woman, and that he'd have difficulty hiding it from him. As it turned out, Violet, though striking and stylish, was just not..._doing_ it for him. He'd cope. He would. She was, somehow, far less beautiful than Sherlock.

"Good work, Kirsty," he said, clutching at a reason to peel his gaze away from Violet. "I'll see that the review he writes for your website is stellar."

"Ah yes," Sherlock added, in his normal voice (which, frankly, gave John the heebie jeebies) and he opened his black beaded clutch bag and slipped out a cheque which Kirsty accepted graciously. Then she wished them good luck, said goodbye, and left.

John had never in his life wanted to run after somebody yelling 'don't leave me!' as much as he did right then.

Because now he was on his own here with Violet, and even though that cleverly designed dress and that carefully applied make-up hid nothing more or less than his best friend, it felt like being in a room with a stranger. He turned back to look at her, and smiled weakly.

"You...you look very pretty darling," he offered, trying for the affectionate tones of a husband. The grin that appeared on those purple lips was all Sherlock, and John felt relief wash through him like a wave.

"Thank you, my dear," Violet replied. "You look rather dashing yourself."

And then John was laughing and everything was okay, everything was _achievable_.

Sherlock laughed too, in his Violet voice which was fairly impressive, and by the time they both wound down a touch, John had become aware that Sherlock had been standing tense, and that he had relaxed now that John was calm again.

"You realise," said Violet, "that we'll have to be fairly close all evening. You'll need to take my hand or put your arm around me, even look at me in a more intimate way than you usually do, and it needs to look natural."

"I get it," John replied. "I'm not shy, you've nothing to worry about on that score. I have no problem with touching you."

Violet didn't respond, just looking at him with something just short of reticence, and it occured to John that maybe he wasn't being warned for his own comfort, he was being warned that his friend might falter.

Before he could think better of it, he held out his arms and beckoned Violet towards him. After a few seconds heels came clicking across the floor, and he was able to settle his arms around Violet's expensively clad waist and shoulders, while those fussy bracelets jingled behind his own back.

It wasn't often that they were this close, not without necessity, but John could feel it helping, could feel some of the not-quite-nerves dropping away from the body in his arms. It said a great deal about how good Sherlock's disguise was that John wasn't the least bit turned on. Sherlock's body disguised by silicon and swathes of fabric, his face disguised with make up, his scent disguised with perfume, and John pushed 'John Anderson' back into place in his mind and took a slow step back.

"Are you ready to go, Violet?" he said with deliberate stiffness.

"Yes dear," Violet replied, offering an obsequious smile.

John nodded and left the room, his wife locking the door behind them and following him down the stairs. Their taxi pulled up conveniently just as he opened the front door, and he opened the car door for Violet, ran his eyes over her legs as she climbed in, then settled into the seat himself before confirming their destination to the driver.

The taxi whisked the Andersons off into the night.

::

So there we have it; Violet makes her grand entrance to the story, and the game is on!

That might be Kirsty's last appearance, I haven't decided yet. If it is, I'll miss her, as she's really fun to write. I also really enjoyed writing John and Sherlock's little bickering session in the bathroom, and of course their hug.

Violet's dress is loosely based on my favourite dress, though mine is maroon. God I love that dress, it's so flattering. I also have a fake Pandora bracelet, which was a last minute Christmas present from a friend, and my god is it fuck ugly. I don't wear it with my dress of awesome, they'd cancel each other out.

Emmerdale is a British soap opera, set in a farming village. I was talking to a Canadian friend not that long ago, who noted that British soap operas tend to be depressing, crowded and weirdly addictive. All of this is true, of some more than others (I'm looking at you Eastenders, yes you), and Emmerdale is no exception, though there are sometimes cute baby farm animals to make up for the depressingness.

I've also discovered that a good way to get any bad mental image out of your head is to imagine either Sherlock or Benedict Cumberbatch (your choice) eating a plum.

A juicy. Succulent. Plum.

Mmmm.

I'll just leave you with that thought. Enjoy ;)


	7. Dangling the Bait

AN: Oh my god, you guys, this story has fan art. I'm delighted!

A mysterious and talented stranger known to me only as K has painted portrait of John and Sherlock in their Anderson get-up. K didn't feel comfortable posting them personally, but kindly allowed me to post them on my Tumblr, dancinggrimm .tumblr post/37931024591/so-a-mysterious-and-talented-stranger-known-to-me (copy and paste the url, then take out the spaces)

Thank you K!

The Royal Lancaster Hotel was not the fanciest place in London. That was little comfort, however, to one John Watson who, as the taxi joined the steady queue of cars dropping off passengers underneath the hotel's awning-covered entrance, was fighting off increasing anxiety.

He never felt quite right in a suit anyway, too used to the extra layers of body armour or lab coat or

woolly jumper to really feel like himself in the thin fabric of shirt and jacket. Still...he wasn't really supposed to be feeling like himself, was he now.

'Violet' had remained astonishingly quiet throughout the journey and, beyond giving John a tense smile evey now and then, had made no attempt to communicate. Playing for the driver, John realised, and he kept his eyes away from his 'wife' ignoring her like she and her worries didn't have the slightest bearing on him.

It was some small relief to see that Sherlock had got their clothes spot on; the small crowd of men and women drifting towards the hotel's doors were dressed in similar suits and cocktail dresses to their own, and as they emerged from the taxi, John reaching back with a possessive gesture to take Violet's arm when she climbed out, they drew barely a second glance. The few looks that they did recieve seemed to drift from Violet's head to John's and back again, noting the height difference no doubt. This was, John felt, quite forgivable. The usual five-inches-or-so that separated him and Sherlock in height had, by grace of those dainty shoes, been changed to something closer to eight or nine inches, and he was uncomfortably aware of being towered over. Violet seemed unfazed though, smiling pleasantly at the people who looked at them on their way into the lobby and keeping up the vaguely nervous glances at John. They took off their coats and handed them in to the cloakroom, then looked around the expansive lobby for their party.

A loose line comprised of little clutches of people had formed outside the grand looking entrance to the suite where the party was being held, and Violet loosed her hold on John's arm to fuss with her handbag as they went to join it. She was looking for the invitation, John realised, and decided that now was as good a time as any to establish himself as a bit of a shit.

"Don't tell me you've forgotten it," he said in sharp, humourless tones, and Violet gave him an apologetic look, obviously distressed. The two couples in front of them in the queue paused in their group conversation to turn and peer surreptitiously at John, and he offered them a pleasant smile before turning a narrow look on his wife.

Violet pulled the invitation from her handbag with a flourish and a sigh of relief that gave the impression she had just escaped certain death. John accepted the card with a curt nod and allowed his wife to take his arm once again.

"Good evening," he said to the four people in front, and they responded politely. One of the couples, Stephen and Gloria, were around fiftyish, cheery looking in a way that suggested they'd spent a while in the bar before venturing forth for the party proper. Stephen casually introduced himself and his wife, then made introductions for the other, younger couple. Charlotte, the younger woman, worked for him, and he had brought her and her fiance, Pete, along as a sort of bonus. The young woman was sharp, John decided; she was already eyeing him with a touch of misgiving, and gave Violet a sympathetic glance when John clamped her arm possessively to his side.

"John Anderson," he announced when his turn to make introductions came. "And this is my wife." He waited just long enough that her name, when he said it, would seem an afterthought. "Violet."

Charlotte looked a touch uneasy once again, perceptive woman that she obviously was.

The queue moved quite slowly, not wholly because it was taking the staff a long time to check people off on the list, but also because the people gathered there were in no rush, chatting amiably and getting to know one another or greeting old acquaintances. John and Violet remained with Stephen and his little group for the time being, making amiable small talk as they edged towards the function room. Every time Violet spoke, John kept his eyes away from her, and every time she made a statement he would roll his eyes or very slightly shake his head, as if he couldn't quite believe she had the gall to express an opinion. Stephen and Gloria were, as John had suspected at first, just a tad bit drunk and didn't seem to think anything amiss. Most casual observers would probably prefer to think of his behaviour as being the aftermath of an argument, a touch of residual bitterness. Charlotte seemed to have caught on though, near constantly now glancing between himself and Violet like she were worried one or the other of them were about to snap.

Finally they reached the front of the queue, and the two other couples had their invitations checked and proceeded into the large function room ahead of them. John looked up quickly as he handed their invitation to the man on the door, and found Sherlock's eyes on him. Sherlock's, not Violet's.

"Okay?" he asked under his breath.

Sherlock gave him a short nod then, like a switch had been flicked, Violet was back.

Invitation approved, John took his wife's arm again as they walked through the archway into the party. The function room was large and dimly lit, the pale colour on the walls making it seem welcoming despite the near darkness. The soldier in John quickly noted the exits and made a rough estimate of the number of people in the room and how they were grouped. Most of the open space was taken up with large round tables covered in white clothes and heaving with cutlery and glasses. The width of the wall at the far end was taken up by an impressive bar, while the end at which most of the guests stood mingling was clearly intended to be used as a dance floor later in the evening. There was no seating plan, and already small groups of people had begun drifting towards the tables, settling with friends and acquaintances.

In a different situation, John would have likely quite enjoyed this party. The crowd didn't seem quite as upper class as he'd thought, more business people than peers of the realm or anything of that type, and that made it all so much easier to cope with for him. Fewer complex manners and potential pitfalls.

From the corner of his eye he saw Sherlock's gaze scanning the room, observing who-knew-what, and not for the first time John found himself wishing he could somehow read his friend's mind at times like this, perhaps even take some of the brunt of that overwhelming torrent of data. Sherlock's eyes finally came to rest on the bar, and John followed his gaze to see a large fair-haired man standing with a small crowd of men and women. He was obviously the centre of this little gaggle, and seemed to be in the middle of an anecdote of some kind, as his associates were leaning in close to listen to him, whooping with laughter or making faces of astonishment at certain peaks in the tale.

Their prey, John thought with a smile. Best get the bait over there.

A waitress with a tray of champagne flutes floated past them, and John reached out for two glasses, handing one to Violet without looking at her. She took it and settled her arm though his once again, as he began to make his way slowly across the room.

John Anderson was a confident and socially adept man, for the most part, as John Watson discovered. He'd always known that, on a good day, he was capable of being very charming. In fact, without that weapon in his arsenal, he would have had little to make up for the rigours of dealing with Sherlock and thus would not have had a date at any point over the last two years. As such, as he steered them around the room towards the bar, he struck up small talk with easily a dozen or so different couples or groups of people, in every case ignoring his wife while keeping her arm clasped to his side. Whenever Violet spoke, her tone light and full of forced vivaciousness, he would act as if she were spouting nonsense, even going so far as to be apologetic to the complete strangers he was chatting with. Some were more perceptive than others, but most seemed to realise that something was amiss.

After the third of these conversations, Violet angled herself away from her husband slightly, so he couldn't clearly see her, and knocked back most of her champagne, then took another glass from a passing waiter. Gearing up to get a bit more talkative perhaps, John thought. Sherlock could hold his booze pretty well, especially lighter drinks like this. Violet was an unknown quantity though, and might be interesting to meet when drunk.

After around twenty five minutes of mingling, Sherlock gave John's bicep a hard squeeze, and John took it as a signal; now's the time. As casually as he could, he drew them away from the elderly couple they'd just been talking with and made a straight line for the bar, muttering something loud enough for all those in the vicinity to hear about needing something stronger than fizz if he was going to endure the rest of the evening in Violet's company. Violet giggled fretfully and slurped at her champagne.

There was a space at the bar near where Garvin stood, and on the oppsite side from where his bodyguard, a heavyset man with thin hair and a very pale complexion, was lurking. Garvin's group had thinned out a little since they'd come in the room, but he was still holding forth with a handful of women. Tall, willowy women with dark hair, all very pretty.

None of them could hold a candle to Violet.

As the Andersons strolled past and John stepped up to the bar, Garvin's eyes fixed on Violet like a hungry dog watching a moving fork, and there was suddenly quiet from his stretch of the bar as he stopped in mid flow of his anecdote. In the mirror behind the bar, John saw Violet notice the attention she was getting and shyly raise her nearly empty champagne glass in the man's direction, a sweet and slightly awkward little salute. His small gathering of keen women forgotten, Garvin heaved his weight up from where he'd been leaning against the bar and in three long strides stood at John's elbow, his body turned so that he was facing Violet.

"Good evening," he said in bright, brusque tones. "Algernon Garvin. Don't think I've seen you and your lovely wife before?"

How old fashioned, John thought. Introducing himself to the husband first in the hope of being allowed to meet the wife.

"John Anderson," John answered, shaking Garvin's hand and smiling pleasantly. "My wife," pause... "Violet."

"Mrs Anderson, what a pleasure," Garvin gushed, clasping Violet's offered hand and bowing his head gallantly over it. "I hope your husband won't mind me saying how enchanting you look." He made another little bow, and Violet giggled, her eyes fixed on Garvin despite her husband's hand being out, offering her the drink he'd just bought. Garvin's quick gaze took this detail in and he preened visibly, smug at having torn Violet's attention away from her spouse so completely.

He was almost endearing, the way he was so old-fashioned and predictable, John thought. He had to try and keep in mind that this man was likely going to make an attempt on his life at some point this evening.

Violet snapped out of her distraction when John cleared his throat, and a quick flash of fear crossed her face as he pushed the glass of wine into her hand with an annoyed shove. John became abruptly aware of somebody standing right next to him and, half expecting the bodyguard, turned to find a thin rather weedy looking young man with frizzy hair. He was an odd specimen, especially in this well turned out crowd, his suit fitting poorly even though it looked expensive enough to have been tailored.

"Um," he said, then seemed at a loss.

"Norman Vale, my secretary," Garvin announced, gesturing casually at the man while keeping his attention on Violet. Vale gave John an awkward smile, then turned and offered Violet a shy wave.

"And my bodyguard, M. Fournier," Garvin added. The bodyguard had moved position so as to be standing between Garvin and the rest of the room at large, his back to the little crowd of them. He didn't turn to acknowledge the introduction, which John noted was good form for a man in his job.

"A bodyguard?" Violet said, surprised. "Mr Garvin, do you have some kind of important job?"

"Don't be a fool Violet," John interrupted as Garvin opened his mouth to answer. "He must be with the government, eh?"

Garven pursed his lips slightly as he looked at John, then turned his attention back to Violet with a broad smile. "Actually my dear, and please call me Algernon, I do not work for the government in any form or measure. I am something of an..._international entrepreneur_." He said this last part with a dramatic snap that any thespian would have been proud of.

"How exciting that must be," Violet said, a little more warmth creeping into her polite tone. "John is a sales manager-"

"_Head_ sales manager," John corrected irritably, "for the largest manufacturer of copper products in Northern Europe." It had taken them a few tries to come up with something that sounded utterly boring and innocuous but would account for John being wealthy enough to attend the party. According to Sherlock, there was a lot of money in copper.

"Gosh," Vale said vacantly, and Garvin just raised his eyebrows politey, clearly not impressed.

"It must be wonderful to travel a lot," Violet sighed dreamily, and John cleared his throat again, snapping her out of it.

"I do enjoy it very much," Garvin replied, ignoring John completely. "Does your life not...offer such opportunities, Mrs Anderson?" The tone in his voice suggested that, whatever aspects Violet found unsatisfactory in her life, it must all be John's fault.

Violet ducked her head a little, attractively flustered at the unexpected interest. "No, we don't go away much. It's alright though, I don't mind. John is afraid of flying you see, and-"

"Violet!" John snapped, cutting her off and making Garvin turn to him with a glare. Violet stammered, her hands shaking and slopping a drop of wine onto her wrist. She took a tentative step closer to her husband.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said anything," she murmured dully, then leaned down to kiss John on the cheek. Soft lips, warm and slightly tacky with lipstick, and John was astonished that he didn't react more, didn't flinch.

John looked up to find Garvin glaring at him, the bodyguard peering back to see what had incited his employer's ire. The bait had been taken; so far, so good.

Before Garvin could react though, a few exclamations reached their ears from the rest of the room, and John looked over to see a stream of staff walking from the kitchen door, bringing out large serving dishes of food. Most of the rest of the attendees had sat down, though a few were still finding their way to their tables. There was no seating plan so there was a lot of milling about.

"Won't you and your charming wife join me at my table?" Garvin asked pointedly, and John gave him a tight smile and a polite nod of acceptance. There was an empty table towards the centre of the room, and Fournier gravitated towards it, looming to one side to keep others away as he waited for the rest of the party to make their way there. Eight seats around it, and John scowled as Garvin pulled out Violet's chair for her and then sat beside her on her left. John took the seat to her right and Vale was on Garvin's other side, fussing pettishly with his cutlery as he settled. Fournier didn't sit, apparently not included in the dinner. He just hovered behind his boss, eyes scanning the room.

"Excuse me, may we join you? Oh! Hello again," said a cheery female voice, and John and Violet both looked up to see Gloria and her party. She plonked herself into the seat to his right, putting down her champagne glass and waving for her husband to sit beside her. "You met up with some friends then Mr Anderson?"

"Not exactly," John replied, and Garvin gave a hearty laugh at that. The chair directly opposite John was pulled out and Charlotte sat down, watching John like a hawk as she took in the way Garvin shifted closer and closer to Violet.

She narrowed her eyes at him.

He fiance gave her a worried look, then turned and seemed to notice John's quiet, fuming anger.

Violet took a deep swig of her wine.

And Garvin raised his glass in a toast, laughing merrily and he touched the back of Violet's hand where it rested on the table.

It was starting to get interesting.

::

Yes it is getting interesting, isn't it.

So that's where I cut it off.

Because I'm a cock tease.

Mwa ha _ha_!

Just to mention it, I got Garvin's name from Willie Garvin in the Modesty Blaise comics. For those of you not too busy being a 'proper grown up' to give comics a chance, they are fantastic adventure stories with a great deal of wit. Willie is the guy you want on your side in the zombiepocalypse, seriously.

I'm crap at making up names, so I tend to turn to books for help. More on that later maybe.

Also, thank you very much to everyone leaving me comments. They really give me a lot of encouragement and help keep me going with the writing. I don't know how people manage weekly series with great long chapters, I really don't. My hat is off to them.

p.s. Sorry about the passive aggression about the comics. As a librarian and comic fan, I'm constantly confronted with people who accuse me of being juvenile and tell me to read some legitimate literature. It makes me want to beat them to death with my copy of Habibi.

Thank for reading :D


	8. A Fine Dining Experience

The food the hotel served was very good indeed, but for once, John hardly even registered it. What he did notice was that;

1) Charlotte seemed to have identified him as enemy to womankind and humanity in general, and her fiance was starting to pick up on this, so that by the time the main course was served they were both watching him with careful suspicion as if they expected him to explode into a violent rage at any moment.

2) Garvin had no shame, absolutely none, when it came to attractive women, not if the way he was openly flirting with a timid-but-flattered Violet in between token comments to John was any indication.

3) Fournier seemed to have picked up on Garvin and Charlotte's mistrust of John which, while quite a compliment to John's acting abilities, was distressing in that he was very large and apparently very effective at his job.

4) Norman Vale seemed aware that something was going on, but was either too dim or possibly (but less likely) too drunk to really work out what it was, as his eyes flickered between the faces of the people around him, a mild expression of curiosity and confusion on his sheep-like face.

5) Gloria was most certainly too drunk to notice what was going on, obvious due to her slurring and also the fact that she was telling John the same anecdote (about her car breaking down on the M25 the day it opened, and _oh!_ you wouldn't believe the fuss, a telly crew turned up) for the second time since they'd sat down. Her similarly tipsy husband was struggling to make conversation with Charlotte and co, and seemed quite put out that they were focussed on other matters.

And most interestingly of all, 6) Sherlock was managing not to eat. In this situation, with so much pressure on, he was still managing to move his food around enough and get enough little smudges on his napkin and sneak enough of it onto John's plate that it _looked_ like he was eating. But if more than three forkfuls passed his painted lips during the whole meal, well, John was the Queen of fucking Sheba.

Worrying about Sherlock's diet was run-of-the-mill enough to calm John's mind, and he applied himself to his own food, nodding politely and making the right responses to Gloria's garbled stories and Garvin's half-attentive remarks.

As the main courses were cleared away, Gloria started chatting with Violet across John, which he made a stern face about. Every time Violet made any kind of assertion, he would roll his eyes impatiently, or even interrupt her and make some negligible correction to what she'd said. Violet's voice became increasingly desperate, interspersed with gradually more frequent blurts of nervous titters, until she simply stopped speaking, responding to Gloria's high-spirited yarns with polite smiles or subdued laughter. John's eyes met Charlotte's across the table and he smiled thinly at her.

Norman Vale drew John into conversation then, beginning to tell him vaguely about his trip to Bonn with Mr Garvin the previous month. John had never been to Bonn, and so could not say for sure if it was as dull a place as Vale's narrative made it out to be or if it was just the fault of the teller, but it was all he could do to remain reasonably civil.

Meanwhile, Garvin had progressed to openly chatting up Violet, Charlotte glancing worriedly between him and John, no doubt expecting a fight. He was telling her about his travels to Chile the previous year, in the context of how much he'd like to take her there and show her the sights. She was blushing (John was impressed at how Sherlock managed to do this on command) which obviously captivated Garvin further, and he turned in his seat to place a hand on her shoulder, a surprisingly intimate gesture. She flinched, but didn't move away from him.

John cleared his throat, and the hand was removed, Garvin never missing a beat in his story. Violet glanced anxiously at her husband, and John placed one of his own hands over hers where it lay on the tablecloth.

Vale had stopped blathering and was watching the faces of the other diners with an expression of placid puzzlement, like he was watching a particularly complicated tennis match. Fournier's eyes were fixed sternly on John, possibly expecting aggression, possibly just showing dislike for him.

Violet's arm subtly jogged his own, and John heard her begin a response to one of Garvin's questions with new cheer in her voice.

"Oh, I remember when John and I were first married, we went to a book festival together and he did the funniest thing. There was quite a famous author there, and John didn't know who he was, and he went up and said to him-"

"Violet!" John snapped, and Violet stopped speaking so abruptly that he heard her teeth click together. She turned to him, a contrite and pleading expression on her suddenly pale face, and he gripped her arm as he stood up, pulling her with him.

"Excuse us," he offered to the table at large, managing to keep his tone of voice pleasant and his expression furious. Then he headed for the door, dragging his apologetic wife along with him. He didn't look back to see the worried and angry stares being directed at them from the table.

Through the doors at the back of the room, into a bland corridor leading to the toilets and a baby changing room. John led Violet past these, around the turn of the corridor, where there was only a locked 'staff only' door, listened for a moment to be sure they hadn't been followed, then asked "Okay?"

Sherlock was himself again, smiling grimly at John from under Violet's make up. "Yes. You're doing very well John."

"Well, thanks. You too. I suppose Garvin's reacting as you'd hoped, right?"

"Absolutely," Sherlock replied with a smirk. "Caught hook line and sinker, as I believe the phrase goes."

"We're not...overdoing it, are we?"

Sherlock sighed. "John, I realise that this situation makes you feel uncomfortable-"

"God, no, it's not that," John interrupted, though it was true. "It's...I wonder if he'll see through it as a trap. What if he gets you alone and just decides it isn't worth the risk or something?"

Sherlock smiled at him as if John were a prococious child who had just said something witty. "Don't worry John, you've seen how arrogant he is. He believes himself to be unstoppable. Just keep up the good work, don't be afraid to lay it on thick."

John nodded. "If he doesn't kill us, I think Charlotte might," he offered, and got a snort of laughter from Sherlock for his troubles.

"She's welcome to try, but I doubt she'd get far with either of us. Now; Garvin's usual modus operandi is to make a big performance, preferably in public, of accusing the husband of abuse, and then whisk the woman away. I will agree to go to a public part of the hotel with him, or to his hotel room-"

"Christ, that's a big risk Sherlock. Are you sure?"

"Yes yes, I'll feign grief or fatigue if he tries anything. His own ideas of chivalry will stop him from pushing under those conditions. After I leave with him, I want you to make your way to the taxi rank, making sure you are seen. Tell the driver to drive around until you can be sure whether or not you are being followed. Then...well, I'm sure you can play it off the cuff from that point on."

"Basically, let's both try not to get killed."

"Yes, that'll do. Now, I think we need to add some fuel to the fire."

"Shall I have hit you while telling you off about your potentially embarrassing anecdote at the book festival?" John asked politely, unable to wipe a stupid smile off his face.

"Yes, I think that will do," Sherlock replied, visibly struggling against a similar grin, and he stepped closer to John. "Go on then," he said.

John reached up with his left hand and pinched Sherlock's right cheek, the little fleshy patch just below the jutting cheekbone, firmly. Sherlock batted his hand away just as the skin was starting to pink up.

"I doubt spousal abusers generally pinch like school children John."

"Well we want there to be a mark, don't we," John replied.

"Why don't you just slap me?"

"Because I don't want to hurt you!"

"Oh, you've hit me for a cover before. Don't be so silly!"

There was a brief scuffle as Sherlock tried to manually operate John's arm. John twisted out of his grasp and took a step back, scowling. Sherlock looked astonished.

"What? What on earth is it?"

"I just...I don't like hurting you, alright? It's bad enough having to pretend."

Sherlock frowned doubtfully at him, studying John's face for long seconds, before rolling his eyes and offering his cheek. "Have it your way, but I don't know what harm you think you'll do with a little slap."

John thought about the sort of force it would take to leave a slap mark that would show up for several minutes after the fact in a dimly lit ballroom, but he stayed silent. Sherlock's pale cheek reddened up nicely after a few seconds of pressure, and when John stepped back to look at him he saw that the difference between the unharmed cheek and the red one was quite noticeable. It didn't seem to be in any hurry to fade either. Good.

He offered his arm, and off they went.

Back in the party, the plates had mostly been cleared from the tables and quite a lot of people had started dancing. Rather than the recorded music that had been playing during the meal, there was now a band playing on a small podium at the top of the dance floor. The lights had been turned down even lower, and bowls of water bobbing with floating candles had been placed on the tables to illuminate the faces of the people who remained seated, lingering over their dessert and coffee.

One of the small groups of people John had spoken to earlier on the way to the bar drifted past them, and one man stopped to ask how they were enjoying the evening. He and his party listened politely to John's response, before taking in Violet's face and her drawn-in posture, and John could practically feel them turn against him.

As the little party left, John steered Violet towards the dance floor, arm possessively around her, and was surprised and no small part relieved when Garvin appeared. Vale and Fournier were not with him, though John would have bet that the bodyguard wasn't far away.

"Ah, I wonder, John, if I might beg of you the opportunity to dance with your dear Violet. Not often I manage to find a dance partner so close to my own height," Garvin said, deliberately casual.

John showed a bit of his teeth when he smiled, letting Garvin show that the unsubtle jibe had gotten to him. "Oh I'm sure," he replied tightly, and gave Violet a bit of a push as he let go of her waist. Garvin nodded to him and swept Violet onto the dance floor with a gallant bow.

Before long, they were in the middle of the crowd of dancers and John could only see the occasional glimpses of their faces. Violet was smiling and Garvin looked like Christmas had come early for him, whirling her about and showing off as much as he could get away with. John backed away from the dance floor as more people started making their way towards it, and leaned back against a wall nearby, hands stuck in the pockets of his expensive jacket.

A few people looked at him with curiosity or sympathy as they passed, but mostly he remained unnoticed which, for the time being at least, was fine. He was grateful for a minute or two to himself, to deal with his thoughts and feelings, with the remnants of the flash of horror when Sherlock had tried to slap himself with John's hand. It was good to get a moment of calm.

All too soon, the lanky form of Norman Vale appeared at his side. The young man was holding a glass of what looked like cider, and John couldn't quite tell if he was drunk or just generally a bit dim.

"Oh, it's you," he said distantly, after staring at John for a good fifteen seconds.

"Mmhm," John replied, putting his Anderson face on and glaring towards the dance floor.

"Have you seen Mr Garvin?" Vale asked, settling his weight against the wall next to John.

"He's over there," John replied tersely, indicating the dance floor with a jerk of his head. "Doing the fucking foxtrot with my wife."

"Oh they couldn't foxtrot to this song," Vale noted, and slurped at his drink. "Quick step maybe."

John glowered, and Vale sank into moody silence.

It occured to John then, that Vale was rather childish. Maybe he should try and get some information out of him. But what sort of information though? Could he possibly know anything that was relevant to the case?

"You travel a lot then? With your boss?" he tried.

Vale pulled a face. "Sometimes. It depends on where he's going. Sometimes he takes me on trips, sometimes he leaves me behind to man the phones."

Probably nothing to be had there, John decided. He looked again at Vale's slack face and wondered how observant the man was. He hadn't given any sign of noticing the obviously aggressive behaviour John Anderson showed to his wife. Or perhaps he was too uncomfortable with the whole situation to acknowledge it. A few minutes passed in silence, as they both searched for glimpses of Violet and Garvin's faces in the dance floor mob.

Finally, Vale seemed to notice the quiet and made an attempt at conversation.

"Um...have you worked at your company long?"

"Thirteen years," John replied brusquely. The number just popped out of his mouth, and it was a moment before it occured to him that that was how long he would have been in the army if he hadn't been discharged.

Vale didn't seem to have a response to that, and so quiet reigned for a bit longer.

"Um...how did you travel here? Drive?" Vale tried again.

"Taxi," John replied.

"I drove," Vale said, the barest touch of enthusiasm creeping into his voice. "I've got a lovely car, actually. Well...it's Mr Garvin's car really. But I can drive it. When he lets me."

"Hm," John responded.

They stared a little longer at the dance floor. A slower song was playing now, and the few glimpses they got of Violet and Garvin showed them waltzing slowly, Garvin leaning close to whisper into Violet's ear. A casual observer would probably dismiss the pale hand that Violet wafted into the air as a gesture to resettle her bracelet or something similar. John recognised it, however, as a signal.

John scowled and, loud enough to draw attention the smattering of people nearby, growled. Then he hefted up his shoulders in that bulldog-ish way he'd seen in his bedroom mirror and marched out onto the dance floor to retrieve his wife.

Catching Violet by the elbow, he dragged her away from Garvin with sufficient force to make her stumble on her heels and cry out. There were a few gasps of surprise from around them, a yell of astonishment from Garvin, but John ignored them all. Violet staggered as he led her back towards that same door they'd left through earlier, party guests scattering out of his way as he went. Violet's voice was high and panicked, pleading, but he closed his ears to it and kept the expression of fury firmly on his face.

Nobody followed them into the corridor, for all the nasty glares he'd recieved, and he pulled Violet along to the little baby changing room, hauled her inside and shut the door behind them.

"Well done John," Sherlock said with genuine enthusiasm. "You're getting better at this. I was almost worried for a moment!"

"Well, how's it gone with Garvin?" John asked, hoping Sherlock didn't make too much of the subject change. "Did he come on to you?"

"He told me to call him 'Algie'. Does that count, do you think?"

John snorted and opened his mouth to reply when Sherlock threw his head back and, in his Violet voice, cried "Please John, I'm _sorry_!"

Catching on, John responded with a loud snap of "Quiet!" and knocked his heel loudly against the skirting board, then they both listened for a moment. There was the sound of some snoopy coward backing rapidly away from the door, then silence.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "It wasn't Garvin by the way."

"...what? What wasn't him?"

"The murders." Sherlock ran his eyes lazily over his fingernails, then turned his slyest smile on John. "He isn't the killer."

John shook his head, mouth hanging open. "How do you know? Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure. He was holding onto my waist as tightly as he dared, but the strength of his grip is impaired. Possibly by osteoperosis or something similar, he's older than he looks at first glance, I'm sure you'd be able to tell better than me. You always were better with living tissue. But anyway, he can't have had the strength necessary to strangle the victims. _John_, you're _hurting_ me!" He cried, and thumped his fist down onto the changing bench.

John gaped. "So...who?"

Sherlock pursed his lips, a light of malicious glee sparking in his eyes. "The bodyguard has been giving you the most threatening glares all night. And he's certainly strong enough to commit the murders. _And_ he's always where Garvin is."

"But you said ages ago that Garvin doesn't have the kind of connections to get somebody to kill as a favour to him. So what's Fournier's motive?"

Sherlock sighed wearily. "In a situation like this, motive is almost certainly emotional. Fournier wasn't a factor until I learned about Garvin's hands, so I haven't looked into his history. It could be he experienced abuse, or somebody he had feelings for did." He shrugged casually, then let out another wail of distress.

John drew himself up, took a deep breath and yelled; "Shut _up_ you silly _whore_!" and gave the wall a good whack with his palm.

Outside the room, there was a strangled gasp of shock, then only a slight pause for reflection before fists began hammering the door.

"Damn you Anderson, come out of there now!" came a snarled demand.

Garvin.

Sherlock smiled carnivorously at John, and John couldn't help but grin back.

Welcome to your element Dr Watson.

The game was on.

::

Hi everyone

Yet another cliffhanger, evil harridan that I am. It isn't that much of a mystery really, not too terribly complicated, but please, if you've worked out whodunnit, don't mention it in the comments yet. The culprit will be revealed in the next chapter and I'd hate for people who haven't worked it out to be spoiled. Thanks.

And thanks once again for all the lovely comments. They brighten my day.


	9. A Killer Revealed

John grabbed the door open, and was met with the unpleasant sight of a glowering Garvin, Fournier hovering at his shoulder with a distinct expression of distaste aimed at John.

"Violet, are you quite alright?" Garvin asked in a dramatically tremulous voice. Violet drew in a shaking breath as if to try and answer, then abruptly buried her face in her hands with a sob. Garvin gasped.

"You rat," he snarled at John, then waved Fournier away. "I'll deal with this myself," he said and yanked John out of the doorway. John let his shoulders go slack and prepared to twist away, but the anticipated punch never came. Garvin just forced him out of the way and reached past him, gathering Violet to his side with one arm and turning to hurry her along the corridor.

"Oi!" John snapped, and stomped after them, the commotion gathering the attention of more than a few people as they passed. Violet was sobbing quite convincingly as she shrank against Garvin's side, every inch the damsel in distress. Garvin paused only once on his way to the hotel lobby, that being to glance over his shoulder at John, possibly simply to glare at him, but more likely to ensure he was following.

A big performance, preferably in public, Sherlock had said. It looked like that was what they were heading for. As they turned a corner towards the lobby, John realised that the large, open room, which also comprised a bar and lounge area, was quite crowded. In fact, without the effect of the music in the ballroom, Garvin's voice would probably carry to every one of these people, most of whom appeared to have drifted out from the party.

Oh Christ, Charlotte and her little gaggle were there. They'd _love_ this. John steeled himself.

Garvin led Violet into the centre of the large room, then in one smooth movement, turned to face John and pushed Violet behind him protectively.

"You!" he roared, pointing his finger at John as if he hoped for a bolt of lightning to issue forth from it. "You absolute brute!"

John simply stopped dead and squared his shoulders, let Garvin get on with it. Everyone was staring now; better than anything on in the West End, this.

"This woman, this harmless, lovely creature, has consented to marry you and placed herself trustingly in your care, and _YOU_! You callously betray that trust with violence and intimidation!"

There were gasps from the crowd. John fixed an expression of shameless fury on his face and remained silent.

"I can't imagine any good reason for any man to treat a woman so poorly, but I can assure you sir, I will see to it that you don't have the opportunity to commit such dire crimes again!"

John wondered if Garvin delivered the same speech every time he did this. It certainly seemed well rehearsed.

"You listen to me you...you _pustule_," Garvin spat. "I am taking this woman somewhere safe and you shall not lay hands upon her again. I hope that it occurs to you to feel shame!"

At this Violet let out a wail of something between anguish and relief, and John was left admiring Sherlock's acting skills, as Violet huddled against Garvin's shoulder and allowed him to lead her away.

All eyes were on John as the pair of them made their dignified walk towards the lifts on one side of the lobby. John moved only to turn his head and watch, furious and impotent, as his wife disappeared into the lift carriage.

There were a few moments of hush in the busy lobby, which quickly collapsed into furious whispering from all corners, as various people questioned the veracity of what they'd just seen and wondered aloud who on earth John was. John kept his eyes fixed on the lift doors, hoping that he simply appeared angry, and that nobody noticed he was watching to see which floor Garvin stopped the lift at. He didn't tear his gaze away from it until he became aware of a movement to his side, and turned back.

Charlotte stood not two feet from him, arms crossed and an expression of triumphant loathing on her face.

"It looks like _you_ got what was coming to you," she said. "I hope you aren't thinking of going after her. There are plenty of witnesses who saw that mark on her face. I'm just _amazed_ you thought you could get away with hitting her in the middle of a public place."

Part of John wanted to point out that _she_ hadn't said or done a single thing until somebody else had taken the risk of confronting him, but that wouldn't be a very 'John Anderson' thing to do, so he merely turned away from her dismissively.

That seemed to open the floodgates and, true to form from what John had seen, various other people began piping up as he walked past them, jumping on Charlotte's band-wagon and shouting at him. Some yelled threats or names, some booed, some just glared. John held his head up high, drew his eyebrows down into a scowl, and marched off into the hotel once again.

He knew there was a taxi rank on the side road next to the building. When it was time, he'd get a taxi there and have the driver take him home via a long route, maybe tell him the wrong address first off and then change his mind halfway. Hopefully, if anybody followed him in another vehicle, he'd have sufficient chance to spot it. Then he could go into the flat and just wait. He always prefered to keep fights to familiar ground, if he was able to.

Before heading for home though, he needed to check on the bodyguard.

John wandered through the corridors behind the ballroom suite until he found a good spot to loiter in, then proceeded to...well, to loiter, for ten minutes or so. That should give the crowd in the lobby the chance to filter back into the ballroom and start telling their friends what had just happened with the tall, stylish woman and her short, arsehole husband. Sure enough, as he emerged from the maze of corridors he saw that the crowd had thinned out considerably, and nobody seemed to pay him much mind as he made his way quietly across the room.

Where to start...

Fournier certainly hadn't followed Garvin. He had disappeared before another lift arrived after Garvin's exit with Violet, and he didn't seem the type to go running up stairs. The bar, perhaps?

Score one Watson! John slipped quietly through the archway into the main bar to see a familiar barrel-like figure in a black suit perched on a bar stool. Fournier looked an entirely different man when he wasn't looming at his employer's side; his face, when relaxed, wasn't bad looking and seemed a little younger even.

John couldn't see him as a murderer, however. Or at least not as one who was about to go chasing around after unsuspecting Andersons. He looked quite contented, sitting there sipping his drink. The bar maid, a curvacious woman with a pretty face, finished dealing with another customer and turned to talk to him. John couldn't hear much of what they were saying, but it was clear that Fournier was chatting her up, in a voice not unlike that of Jean Reno, and she seemed to be fairly interested.

Quite likely that Fournier would be staying here for the forseeable future. John felt slightly disappointed. Not that he really _wanted_ to be strangled by a large Frenchman, but things had been going along so well, and it was _good_ to be this involved in one of Sherlock's schemes.

Might as well stick with the plan anyway, he thought, and set off into the corridors of the hotel once again, pulling his phone out of his pocket to send a text as he went.

_Fournier in bar flirting with barmaid. No sign of violent rage due to psychological issues or otherwise. How's Garvin? Cold hands?_

_JW_

It was a minute or so before Sherlock replied, possibly due to having had to cook up an excuse to answer his phone, possibly due to having to peel certain cold hands off certain parts of himself. Finally, just as John was getting to the door out to the taxi rank, the phone buzzed.

_Go ahead with plan to go home. There may be more than one person at work here. _

_SH_

John carried on his way, until his phone buzzed again.

_Garvin's hands no business of yours. A lady doesn't kiss and tell._

_SH_

John snorted and pushed open the door that led onto the side street. The taxi rank was only yards away, a long narrow lay-by lit by weak, sulphurous lights. As he stepped out, a couple of women climbed into the waiting cab and it pulled away, leaving the rank empty. With a shrug, John wandered over to the edge of the pavement and leaned comfortably against a lamp post, grateful to be able to shed John Anderson's aggressive posture.

It was quite pleasant out there actually. After the noise and crowd of the ballroom, it felt cool and quiet, and the dim light was soothing on his tired eyes. It was raining a little, but it was that barely-there sort of light rain, the kind that seemed to float about rather than fall properly, and John quite enjoyed the sensation of it against his skin.

Behind him he could hear occasional bursts of conversation and music from the hotel as doors opened and closed, and to either side was traffic noise from the distant streets. Here though, he felt like he was in a little coccoon, so quiet and solitary.

So this was how his big date with Violet ended, was it? Not an anticlimax exactly, but he felt foolish for having gotten so wound up aout it all. And yes, it had been a shock to see Sherlock in his get-up. And yes, he had yet to shake off his feelings for the big lanky twonk, but-

Cold hands grabbed John about the neck from behind him, and in the second before they clamped down on his trachea, he managed to suck in a lungful of air.

His attacker knew what they were doing, squeezing his windpipe rather than trying to get a grip on the whole girth of his neck. John thrashed back with his elbows, aimed a kick, but didn't make any significant impact.

Enough mucking about, he decided, and shoved his heels against the pavement at such an angle to send him flying back to the wall, his attacker crushed between him and it. A great _huff_ of air went past his ear, as the hands about his throat loosened. The attacker scrabbled at him once again, trying to get a grip, but John turned and, as he did so, landed an elbow in the other man's stomach and reeled back to punch him in the face.

Folding his arms around his stomach, Norman Vale sank to the floor, wheezing, blood gushing from his nose.

John stood and stared down at him for a moment, stunned. Norman Vale? It seemed so...counter-intuitive.

Vale moaned softly and showed signs of trying to get up, but John made as if to hit him again and the man receeded. It sounded as if he was sobbing. John pulled his phone from his pocket with a deep sigh.

_Just got attacked by the secretary. Have subdued him and am waiting for you at the taxi rank. Peel Garvin off and come down here. Am phoning Lestrade._

_JW_

"I...I can't...I don't..." Vale tried to speak weakly, then began crying rather more loudly. John knew it was irrational, but he suddenly felt guilty for hitting him.

John speed-dialed Lestrade's number and kept his eyes on Vale while he waited for the Inspector to answer.

"Hello?"

"Greg, it's John. You know that business with the abusive husbands being murdered?"

"Oh God, was that tonight? I knew I shouldn't have gone to bed. You two are going to have me all over the bloody city looking for-"

John chuckled. "No, I've got him here. He just tried to attack me. I'm at the taxi rank by the Royal Lancaster Hotel. Come and pick him up, will you? Oh, and bring a counsellor or a psychologist or something."

"...fucking hell John, you're getting just like _him_," Lestrade groaned, and John heard a creak as he got out of bed. "Okay, I'll be there in about fifteen minutes."

John was saying goodbye just as he became aware of a distinctive sound just beyond the hotel door; the sound of a person running in high heels. Moments later, Sherlock burst out into the night, eyes ablaze.

"John! You got him?"

John nodded and gestured to Vale, who was now curled up in fetal position on the floor, still crying uncontrollably. Sherlock clicked over to stand next to him and regarded the man with a disappointed expression.

"Emotional breakdown do you think?"

"Possibly," John replied. "We don't know what drove him to this though, do we. Lestrade's on his way."

Sherlock sighed. "Oh John," he said wearily. "Why didn't I see this coming?"

John reached out and patted his friend's shoulder. "Well," he replied in soothing tones, "You weren't to know he was a bit...um..."

"Loopy?"

"Well, that's not really politically correct, is it."

Sherlock scowled at him.

"Alright then, we'll go with loopy until the psychologist turns up and tells us what he is."

::

Yes, I'm sure a lot of you saw this coming, but oh well. I hope you enjoyed the journey. Don't worry though; the crime may be solved (more or less) but there's more to be resolved, and Sherlock's going to need some help getting out of that dress.

I'm sure John's a handy man with a zip. And bra hooks, probably.

Mmm.


	10. A Fairly Decent Proposal

While waiting for Lestrade an his team to arrive, Vale more or less settled down, and the rain had agitated Sherlock's hair just enough to make the tips curl up. It looked quite fetching, and John had told him so, only to be smacked on the arm with a clutch bag.

"You're no kind of lady," John told him.

"Well you aren't any kind of gentleman. I'm getting rained on! You could at least offer me your jacket."

"The sleeves would be too short. Besides, your coat is only a minute's walk away in the cloakroom. Why don't you go and get it?"

"Why don't _you_ go and get it," Sherlock huffed.

"I'm a doctor, I've got to stay here," John replied, pointing at Vale, and they were both seconds away from really, _truly_ inappropriate giggles when Lestrade's unmarked car rolled up, closely followed by a squad car.

Only then did it occur to John that he had no idea if Lestrade knew about Violet.

He stepped forward to meet him as the inspector clambered tiredly out of his car, Donovan getting out of the passenger door and walking back towards the squad car without even a glance in John and Sherlock's direction.

"Greg, you okay?" he asked.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm just...I...what..."

No, he hadn't known about Violet at all. Not if the goldfish impression he was now doing in Sherlock's direction was any indication.

"Greg?"

Goldfish.

"Greg!"

"That..."

"Yeah, Sherlock's in a frock. I'm sure he'll tell you all about it later."

"Oh Christ. Alright," Lestrade muttered, and he turned to his officers, something of the thousand-yard-stare in his eyes as he did so. "Addesley, get the suspect into the car and help Dr Mistry with him. Anderson, get ready to take his prints. We'll want measurements of his hands too."

An eager looking detective constable and a middle aged woman who John recognised as a criminal psychiatrist relieved them of Vale with barely a glance at Sherlock.

"His boss, Algernon Garvin, was our original suspect," John told Lestrade, peripherally aware of Sherlock glaring at him, "But it turned out that he wasn't the one. Sherlock realised he had some condition that impaired his grip, so he couldn't have strangled anyone. He may have been aware of Vale's actions though."

Lestrade nodded, glanced uncomfortably at the still silent Sherlock, then beckoned Donovan over.

"Sally, go up to this Garvin's room and sort him out, would you? Yates, go with her." Sherlock broke his silence to mutter the room number and John passed it on, then Donovan scurried off into the hotel, deliberately keeping her gaze away from Sherlock, the younger Yates having to run to keep up with her. Poor girl, John thought. He wondered if he should warn her that she was Garvin's type too.

When he turned back to Sherlock, Anderson had drifted over and was looking an unimpressed 'Violet' up and down with a raised eyebrow. He took a step back and looked up and down again, then stepped forward once more, closer this time, and John saw a smile creep slowly over Sherlock's face.

Oh God, Anderson didn't get it.

John clamped his hand over his mouth to stop any laughter or hysterical screams. Lestrade turned back to them to say something, but paused in the middle of forming a word, eyes staring half-focussed at Sherlock and Anderson as if seeing a terrible car accident in progress.

Anderson gave Sherlock a grin that John assumed he thought was charming.

"And you are?" he asked, impishly.

Sherlock smirked and held out a hand, palm down and fingers elegantly straight. "Violet," he said.

Lestrade let out an odd wheezing noise. John knew how he felt.

"My husband," Sherlock added, gesturing towards John.

Anderson frowned at that and half turned to John, the words 'you're not married' almost visibly beginning to form on his lips.

_Then_ he got it.

He stumbled backwards so fast that he smacked into the side of Lestrade's car.

"Just get on with it Anderson," Lestrade said wearily, and Anderson, looking scandalised and disgusted but unable to tear his eyes away from Sherlock, nodded shakily and sidled off towards the squad car in which Vale and Dr Mistry were talking.

John' laughter was leaking out from behind his hand now and it almost hurt to keep it contained, but Sherlock was smiling warmly and indulgently at him and damn it but that made a lot of things worthwhile.

Lestrade shook his head firmly and reached into the car to take a packet of Aspirin from the glove box.

The door swooshed open and Donovan emerged looking annoyed. Her eyes cut from John's red face over to Anderson, then back to Sherlock with a malevolent gleam. Luckily she seemed to remember her boss was right there, and didn't unleash the spleen _just_ at that moment.

"Yates is going to bring him downstairs in a minute sir," she reported tensely. "He seems a bit agitated, but he isn't violent."

"Of course he isn't," Sherlock told her airily. "As far as he's concerned, he's just been ditched and now the police have shown up. A man like him after an evening like this, he's too confused to be violent."

Donovan narrowed her eyes at him. "I think I'm going to throw up," she snarled.

Sherlock smirked. "Just try not to splash it near these shoes Sally, the Met couldn't afford to replace them."

Donovan's eyes darkened and, before she could return the volley, John stepped smartly out of the line of fire and made his way over to the squad car and its open rear door.

Vale seemed to have become very compliant; he was sitting slumped and boneless in the back seat of the car, listening passively to Dr Mistry, who spoke calmly, telling him what was going to happen to him. He spoke once or twice, his voice hoarse from crying, just a few words in answer to questions. There was still dried blood on his top lip. Anderson hovered outside the door next to him, waiting for an opportunity to take his fingerprints.

Lestrade appeared beside John, holding his phone. "The doctor got his real name from him first. I just called it in and got his records. Social services."

John nodded, not entirely sure that he wanted to hear this. He didn't want to feel too sorry for a man who'd just tried to strangle him. Dr Mistry gave them a very vocal look, and Lestrade drew John away from the car so Vale wouldn't hear them talking about him. They both glanced over at Sherlock, who was peering through the hotel door looking dangerously bored, but by silent agreement neither of them called him over. John could tell him the necessary information later. He'd just be a pain at this point and make them both cross with him.

"Real name's Edward Dyer," Lestrade began, looking at his notebook. "He grew up in a home with abusive parents. When he was fourteen, his older sister moved in with her boyfriend and he went to live with them to try and get away from it. But the boyfriend was abusing his sister, and eventually started on Dyer too. Apparently he asked his sister to go somewhere else with him, so they'd be safe. She kicked him out the house."

"Christ," John murmured.

"Social services decided to take him into care, gave him some therapy and such but he was calm and sensible so they didn't really pursue it far. They haven't kept track of him since."

John sighed and looked over at the squad car, at Vale's head just visible over the top of the back seat. Poor bugger.

A hand landed heavily on his shoulder, making him jump.

"Don't feel sorry for him John," Sherlock said quietly, and back came that psychic flatmate paranoia. "He made the decision to kill, and to attack you."

"Decisions impaired by mental and emotional trauma, Sherlock."

"Doesn't change the fact that it was his hands around your neck," Sherlock replied, eyeing John's no-doubt reddened throat. "Don't be foolish and start feeling sentimental over him John. It won't help either of you."

John saw Lestrade, to his surprise, nodding agreement, and sighed deeply again. Sherlock had somehow found a moment to go to the cloakroom and was wrapped in his coat, its little pink-stitched buttonhole looking incongruously cheerful. He was about to say something when a familiar voice reached his ears and the door flew open again, spilling out Yates and Garvin.

"What on earth is going on?" Garvin cried. He zeroed in on Lestrade and the two men stepped up to each other, clearly preparing for an argument.

"Mr Algernon Garvin? Detective Inspector Lestrade. You employ Mr Vale, correct?"

"Yes. This officer tells me you arrested him for some silly thing. Now listen; that man-" he pointed at John. "That man has been viciously beating his wife and if Norman Vale decided to pick a fight with him, well I say good on Norman Vale!"

"Mr Garvin," Lestrade interrupted sternly, "Norman Vale has confessed to several murders including the attempted murder of John Watson this evening. He also has been living under a false name."

Garvin paled, his mouth dropping open, and pushed past Lestrade to get towards the squad car. Vale, or rather Dyer, had pushed open the door on his side and was sitting quietly while Anderson inked his fingertips. He looked up as Garvin approached and an expression of horror crossed his face.

"No!" he cried, getting to his feet and facing Lestrade. "Mr Garvin had nothing to do with it, I swear! Don't arrest him, please. He's too kind!"

"It is true Norman?" Garvin asked.

Vale stared at him for a long, silent moment, then let out a sob and receeded back into the car, huddling in the centre of the back seat.

"Oh Norman," Garvin breathed. "Oh dear."

Lestrade drew him back away from the car a little. "Mr Garvin, we need to ask you a few things, and I've like to see if you can recall certain dates and the events that took place on them so-"

"You said something about Watson," Garvin interrupted. "Who is that?"

"This is John Watson," Lestrade answered, gesturing at John. "He and his partner are consulting detectives who have been investigating this case with our approval. He-"

"He's a _brute_ who has been beating that partner of his!" Garvin roared, making Lestrade jump. He turned on his heel and stalked towards John, fury radiating from him like a mist.

"You even had the nerve to call the police? You think that they won't take action because you help them? Well I have every intention of making sure they prosecute, and you'd best prepare for the worst! You're going to prison you little rat!"

Despite John's attempts to interrupt him, Garvin managed to deliver all of this in one breath, with volume and resonance that Brian Blessed would have been proud of. Before John could retort, Garvin brushed him to one side and approached Sherlock, hands outstretched.

Everyone in the alley, except possibly Vale, stared with perverse fascination.

"Violet, I've never met a woman like you," Garvin told her earnestly. "Leave that rotten creature that lured you into marriage, I beg of you. I'll marry you, I swear it in front of all these law officers. You'll never have to worry for money, nor for your safety. I promise you-"

"I'm a man," Sherlock said in his normal voice.

Garvin stalled, mouth open in mid speech.

"Um, he and John were pretending to be married," Lestrade pointed out. "John was pretending to be abusive. He-"

"I think he gets it Greg," John noted, because really, Garvin wasn't stupid.

He did look a bit green about the gills, however.

With a start he turned on the spot and _sprinted_ – no mean feat for a man his size – back through the door into the hotel, Donovan and Yates hot on his heels.

"Fucking hell," Lestrade breathed, rubbing his hands over his face.

"John, let's go," Sherlock said.

"What? But-"

"I'm hungry."

John shared a weary glance with Lestrade, then nodded. "Okay, we'll go home."

"The only food at home is those pasta-tubes-in-cheese-powder things, John. We'll go to a restaurant."

"Oh al_right_! We'll go home and change, then go-"

"I'm starving John, I can't wait. I'll go like this."

"What? But-"

"I'll expect you in my office to give a statement tomorrow morning," Lestrade ordered, always quicker than John to give in. "I'm serious Sherlock, don't just send John in with a letter again."

Sherlock rolled his eyes in acknowledgement and turned to the road. A couple of taxis had pulled into the side street, then seen the police car and hung back from the rank. Sherlock beckoned the first one to come forwards, and with a sigh John trudged over to join him.

"You should feel honoured to be escorting me to dinner, John," Sherlock told him with a smirk. "I'm clearly very desirable. I _did_ just get proposed to."

"Mm. And Anderson quite liked you too," John noted, and Sherlock gave him a dirty look before getting in to the cab.

::

I wasn't going to make such a big deal of this scene initially, but people kept leaving comments that they wanted to see various character's reactions, so I decided to go for it.

I adore Brian Blessed. I don't know how well known he is outside the UK, but possibly his most famous American role is as Vultan in Flash Gordon ("_Gordon's alive?_"), which alone will give you some idea of how amazing his voice is. As well as an actor, he is an explorer, mountaineer, athlete, and overall a real Rennaisance man, sort of like Benedict Cumberbatch might grow into if he's a good boy.

See you next week :D


	11. A Much Better Proposal

John wondered where they were actually going to go, but of course Sherlock knew of a good restaurant nearby, and directed the taxi driver to it in his Violet voice. It was weird, John thought; even though Sherlock still had the clothes and the make up and the hairstyle, even though he was still speaking in the voice, he was suddenly entirely Sherlock. Just...Sherlock in a frock.

Not wanting to look like a bad husband when it wasn't necessary, John politely helped Sherlock out of the taxi when it pulled up, and they walked side by side, at their usual comfortable proximity, down the street. The restaurant was a small Italian place, perhaps rather more upscale than Angelo's but (and John might possibly have been biased) less cosy.

The head waiter, a man of around thirty with an aggressively charming smile and gelled back hair, approached them as they came in.

"Are you still serving?" John asked.

"Yes sir, but not for much longer. I can take your order immediately, if that suits you," he offered, a slight hint of an Italian accent in his voice.

He showed them to a table set for four in a quiet corner of the busy main room and pulled out Sherlock's chair, while John took Sherlock's coat and draped it over one of the unused seats.

"It's a good, private spot for a date, eh?" the waiter asked with a cheeky smile. "You make a nice couple. Match up well."

"Oh, we're not a couple," Sherlock trilled in the Violet voice. "We're just friends."

"Ah, but you'd like it to be more, eh?" the waiter replied and, with a wink, he placed the menus in their hands and whirled off, leaving John to wallow in the rare pleasure of seeing Sherlock lost for words.

"Now you know how it feels," he pointed out. Sherlock just held his menu up in front of his face and kept his mouth shut.

Another waiter came with water for them a minute or two later, and Sherlock leapt in straight away with his order. As usual after a case, he was gorging, and he ordered a serving of lasagne with a side salad and garlic bread. John, who had managed to put away a modest amount of food at the party, asked for a small chef salad and some wine for them both. Once the waiter left, the table felt surprisingly intimate, despite the fact that the nearest group of diners must have been less than six feet away.

"What do you think'll happen to Vale? Dyer, I mean," John asked.

Sherlock shrugged. "Perhaps prison, more likely some sort of institution. I wouldn't be at all surprised if Garvin made some sort of arrangements for him to be tucked away somewhere cushy. He's the sort to get attached."

"Hm, probably. It doesn't quite seem fair, that. Six people, maybe more even, all dead, and the killer will probably live out his days in relative comfort."

"And we sit here in a restaurant while little children in Africa starve. Life isn't fair, John."

"Hm," John replied, and they sat in silence for a few minutes while Sherlock busily deduced the other diners' life histories, or whatever it was he did when he got that look in his eye. The music playing was pleasant and soft, the lighting mellow, and John felt himself start to relax.

"You know," John mused after a while, "I've actually quite enjoyed this evening. Apart from the bit with my windpipe being crushed and a lobby-full of people hating me. And the abusive husband...thing."

Sherlock pursed his lips. "That was more or less the entirety of your evening, John. What else was there?"

"You," John replied, and _shit_ that had sounded like a line from a stupid rom-com. "It was...interesting to see you being Violet, I mean. You pulled it off really well, much better than I could ever have expected."

Sherlock laughed lightly and seemed about to reply, when his eyes narrowed and the 'gaze of deduction' (as John's brain liked to think of it) was suddenly turned on him.

John tensed.

"You know John, I've been wondering why you refused to hit me, or rather, in more general terms, the root of your ethical barriers when it comes to me. You know, most people, when offered the chance to take out a little anger on the person who causes them so much frustration, without any risk of repercussion, would jump at the chance. But you became angry with me once again. Why do you suppose that was?"

"I...because I care about you. I don't like to see you get hurt," John replied, his voice coming out flat.

"Lestrade cares about me. Mycroft cares about me. Mrs Hudson cares about me. And I'm sure _they_ wouldn't hesitate to belt me one if given half a chance. In fact, in two of those cases, I know from experience that they wouldn't."

"Really? Which two?"

"Hardly the point John. I believe there is something more to this situation, and I'd like – ah!"

John looked up to see what had distracted Sherlock and saw the waiter had arrived with their food. Relief swept through him, so much so that he didn't even mind when the huge plate of lasagne was placed in front of him and the modest bowl of salad in front of Sherlock. The waiter gave them another cheeky smile, poured out the wine for them, then left.

"Why did he get the plates wrong?" Sherlock mused, half to himself.

"He assumed that you had the salad because he thinks you're a woman," John explained, swapping the plates over and passing Sherlock his side salad. "Women tend to eat less than men anyway, and pretty women often watch their weight carefully."

Sherlock made a little _pfft_ noise of disdain for those with less vigorous metabolisms and tucked into his food with gusto. John couldn't blame him; even the fairly simple chef's salad was delicious, and the lasagne smelled fantastic. Sherlock stole a slice of boiled egg from John's plate so John retaliated by pinching a bit of garlic bread, and they had a little elbow fight before settling down again.

Their plates were nearly clean when Sherlock, speaking around a mouthful of pasta, announced; "I think I've worked it out, John."

John's nice light meal suddenly felt like lead in his stomach. He put down his cutlery and turned a little in his seat to look Sherlock in the eye.

"The issue at hand is that you found 'Violet' attractive, which you didn't expect. I suppose she fits your type, after all, it shouldn't be too much of a surprise. This confused you somewhat, but it also gave you the opportunity to rationalise and lay to rest a lingering and uncomfortable feeling of attraction you have towards me – don't think I didn't notice – when I am in my normal demeanour. Having taken advantage of this opportunity, you began to feel that, as Violet, I needed to be cared for as you usually care for the women you date, and thus you developed protective feelings. Don't worry about it John, really."

That...John was stunned. Sherlock rarely got things wrong, and when he did it was usually just some little detail. But he'd somehow managed to get this completely ass-backwards. He was half tempted to tell him exactly what the situation was, just to piss him off, but he couldn't. There was no way.

His mouth was open and he had no idea what was about to come out of it, when Sherlock started talking again.

"In any case, I'm sure that you realise harbouring any attraction towards me is...at best silly. While we are sufficiently compatible for our living arrangements to remain advantageous, you'd quickly find yourself frustrated in a romantic relationship. People in such a state invariably seek a balance, and you'd find the disparity in our intellects increasingly frustrating. And really John, I don't think you fully appreciate the degree to which I am intellectually superior to you."

He took another bite of his food, perfectly calm.

John had it in him to get _really_ angry. He could feel it bubbling away in his chest, just waiting for him to give into it and let rip. But he didn't, he squashed it back down.

Because he saw Sherlock clearly right at that moment, possibly more clearly than he ever had done before, and he could see _hurt_. He could see the people that had come before him, who had befriended Sherlock or maybe even become his lover, who had left him because of their own insecurities and frustrations, just left him all alone with himself when he needed somebody to keep him sane. It was all written there in Sherlock's stiff shoulders, in the exaggerated care with which he cut up the remains of his food. John could see fear.

That just wouldn't fucking do.

Sherlock started talking again, and there was something weak and self-protective in his voice that told John he was right.

"It's not just the intellectual question, of course. I'm younger than you, and taller, and people do try to compensate for these things John, you know it as well as I do. You'd try not to but you'd end up doing something _foolish_. And you already get cross with me over the way I behave and it...it would only be a matter of time before-"

"I love you," John cut in, and Sherlock's head jerked up, his mouth dropped open, his eyes fixed on John's like he expected to be attacked.

"You are more intelligent than me, vastly moreso, that's true. And you're younger than me, and taller, and let's add better looking to the list too, because you are. And sometimes the things you do and the way you treat people drives me right round the fucking _twist_, it really does.

"But I don't give a fuck about any of that. I won't leave you, Sherlock. I love you."

Sherlock's mouth was still hanging open, giving John a lovely view of some half chewed ragu, so feeling fearless, he reached over and carefully pushed it shut. Sherlock swallowed convulsively. John smiled at him.

"What...I..." Sherlock grabbed at his water glass like it was a lifeline and took a deep gulp from it. His hand was shaking, rippling the surface, and John gently gripped his wrist, took the glass from him and put it down.

"Do...John, do you _mean_ that?" Sherlock croaked, and suddenly all that fear and pain came up to the surface of him, bright and harshly gleaming in his eyes and his pale face.

John slid his hand up Sherlock's arm from his wrist, up to his shoulder, and held him still.

Leaned in and kissed him.

Not a serious kiss, not a scary-for-emotionally-agitated-people kiss, because god knew neither of them needed that. Just lips on lips, warm and gentle, a soft little 'hello, nice to know you'. Sherlock's lipstick had mostly worn off as he'd eaten, just a hint of tackiness remaining, and that was all that came between those plush, beautiful lips and John's own.

Even if Sherlock freaked out now, or punched him, or brushed him off, that would be enough to make do with.

His hand still lightly gripping Sherlock's shoulder, John sat back in his chair, their faces still close. Sherlock's eyelids were half closed at first, but they quickly snapped open, the eyes themselves suddenly ablaze with curiosity and confusion.

"John, you can't mean..."

"What? What can't I mean?"

"It's just...physical attraction. Surely, it must be just-"

"I won't lie to you, physical attraction is definitely a factor. That's not all of it though."

Sherlock stared at him, baffled and upset, for long moments, and John took pity on him.

"I meant it, Sherlock. I love you. And all that that implies. Even when you're being a dick."

He smiled at his own feeble joke, but Sherlock's face remained strained.

"But John, I...when it's people..." He shook his head, eyes still fixed on John's with something like horror in them. "I just don't _understand_ it. I can't keep up with them John, and I...they..."

John felt a little chill go stright through him, and he reached both arms out to Sherlock, gathered him up when he tried to pull away. Sitting side by side put them almost at eye level with one another, and he took the opportunity to reach up and tuck the side of Sherlock's face against his own.

"It's alright," he said softly. "I'll help you with it all. You know how patient I can be, just let me help you deal with it. If..." Here came the difficult part. "If you want me, you can have me. We'll deal with all the other stuff."

Sherlock's hands had come to rest on either side of John's chest, and as he spoke he felt the long fingers clench into the fabric of his jacket. Uneven breaths huffed against the top of his ear, and he had to force himself not to move, not to tense.

Just let Sherlock work it out.

Long seconds passed in the little bubble that was their corner of the restaurant; waiters walked by, other diner's voices raised in laughter or discussion, and John just stayed still and calm while his best friend worked everything out.

Finally, Sherlock drew back a little and looked John dead in the eye, and heaven help him but John had seen that expression before, just never expected to see it on Sherlock. And this time, neither of them really kissed the other, they just sort of met in the middle.

Arms tight around each other this time, kissing slow and careful, parted lips and polite little dabbing touches of tongues. Then John gave Sherlock's lower lip just the slightest little bite and Sherlock made a little noise into his mouth and it suddenly took two big steps towards foreplay. They both thoroughly enjoyed themselves for a good minute or two, before one of them remembered they were in a crowded restaurant.

John pulled back but kept Sherlock near, still slightly worried that some species of mood swing would strike and the big idiot would panic. They stared at each other, faces so close that John's vision blurred.

"I meant it," John said softly.

Sherlock _smiled_.

"Aw, quanto carino," their waiter cooed from somewhere nearby, and the bubble popped, snapping them both out of the moment. They each reclaimed their arms and shifted properly into their own chairs once again. They picked up their cutlery and got to work on cleaning their plates.

And all the time, their knees were touching under the table. And all the time, Sherlock didn't stop smiling.

They finished eating and the plates were cleared away and they barely said a word to one another, just smiled and savoured the new turn things had taken, the almost frightening wealth of potential laid out before them. The waiter, beaming as if he were cupid himself, brought them the bill, and John paid then got up and helped Sherlock into his coat.

They held hands on the way out the door.

"We host weddings!" the head waiter called after them as they left, and both of them cracked up laughing in the street.

::

This chapter took me a disproportionately long time to write, probably because I never know how to write a kiss. Or rather, I can sort of manage the more lascivious kisses, but not an innocent first kiss. I'm better at writing porno tongue than church tongue, for those of you who've seen The Wedding Singer. So I hope it reads okay.

Porno tongue is likely to crop up soon though.

The thing the waiter says is, roughly, Italian for 'how cute'. If anyone with a better knowledge of Italian wants to correct me on this though, please go ahead.

The waiter himself is sort of based on an Italian man I was seated next to on a nine hour flight last year. For five of those hours, I slept. For the other four I was on the recieving end of some of the cheekiest, most lascivious and weirdly polite flirting I have ever experienced. Oh flirty Italian chaps, you do a girl's ego good.

Also, to my mind, out of Sherlock's list of three people who care for him yet would punch him, the ones that have actually smacked him one are Lestrade and Mrs Hudson. Though that's just my opinion, you may think differently.

And note I have added another chapter, so we're up to 13 total, eventually. That's mostly because this chapter and the previous one were originally going to be one chapter, but I decided to stretch out chapter 10 due to requests for Anderson and Lestrade being stumped.

I'm terribly sorry that there is going to be an extra chapter to endure. I hope you can all forgive me.


	12. All The Way Home

Their arms jostled together as they walked down the street to where a couple of taxis were pulled up. John wondered distantly if it was likely he would get away with trying to hold hands, but the warm brush of their sleeves and the closer-than-usual proximity between them was very pleasant in itself, so he decided not to push his luck.

Sherlock seemed happy enough with developments; he wasn't smiling, but frankly John would have been worried if he was. He looked quite content though, quite pleased to just stroll along the dark street, somewhat less distracted by the details of their surroundings than usual.

They got to the taxi rank and John opened the door of the first one in the queue, giving their address to the driver through the window while Sherlock got in. When he climbed into the back himself, he found that Sherlock had taken the middle seat, not the one on the far side as he usually did, leaving John to sit right up next to him. John looked at the empty seat with a little soaring feeling of delight in his chest and, glancing up to see slight trepidation in Sherlock's face, he climbed in and settled himself quickly.

As the taxi pulled away, he felt Sherlock relax slightly. They were, once again, pressed together arm to arm and now knee to knee, but apart from that they weren't touching at all. They hadn't spoken a word since the restaurant, and John was wondering how to reopen communications as it were, when Sherlock tensed up again and spoke as if he were forcing the words out despite an uncooperative jaw.

"Are we going to have sex when we get home?" he asked, mercifully keeping his voice low enough that the driver wouldn't be able to hear it over the engine.

"Umm...only if you want to," John replied. This felt like thin ice.

Sherlock studied him with sharp eyes. "Do _you_ want to?"

"Well...yes. Naturally. But only if you do."

"Well, that's settled then," Sherlock said with a nod.

_Was it?_ John thought. _What exactly have we decided? _

"Yes," he said aloud, not entirely sure what he was agreeing to.

Sherlock nodded again, a bit more firmly, and twisted his hands in his lap. After a few silent moments John felt a smile twitching around the corners of his lips, and he turned to look at Sherlock's face only to see him battling with the same affliction.

They grinned at each other, and it was like getting great news, treating a wound, cracking a case, all those good things.

Then Sherlock more or less threw himself at John's mouth.

To his credit, it only took John a second or two to catch up, because if nothing else, working with Sherlock for so long had trained him to deal well with being unexpectedly lunged at. He managed to get his arms around the lanky body flung half on top of him, then propped himself back up so he was vertical, which righted Sherlock at the same time. Sherlock was nuzzling and sucking clumsily at John's mouth, which was quite sweet but not really getting them anywhere, so John cupped Sherlock's jaw to keep his head still, tilted his own head _just_ so and...

Oh goodness yes, that was nice.

Sherlock released his death grip on John's upper arms and put his arms around him properly, mimicking John's own posture, while John got to know the feel of Sherlock's tongue against his own, happily licking away the lingering flavours of tomato and salad dressing until all he was tasting was Sherlock's saliva. Sherlock _mmm_ed into his mouth, wiggled his own tongue against John's, then sucked it a little. John _mmm_ed this time, so Sherlock did it again, and again, and was getting just a bit too pleased with himself, so John reeled his tongue back in and gave Sherlock's lower lip a tiny bite.

Sherlock made a very unladylike grunting sound at that and upped the ante, easing the arm that was pressed between the side of John's chest and the backrest down until John felt the tips of those long fingers sliding _up_ under his jacket and then _down_ under the waistband of his trousers, touching the upper curve of his buttock through his thin briefs.

So then _John_ upped the ante. Which wasn't difficult, because yes Sherlock had managed to get hands inside clothes pretty damn quickly, but he also seemed to have forgotten that he was wearing a skirt.

John pushed Sherlock's unbuttoned coat open and placed his palm on one of the bony knees pressed close up to his own, then slid it up, feeling layers of heavy fabric and rough net crumple and scratch against his knuckles. Sherlock's fingers flexed against his buttock and shoulder blade, and John licked the underside of his tongue.

His hand was in a very nice place; long, lean thigh under thin, smooth tights, the skin warm and firm. And Sherlock seemed perfectly happy with getting his leg groped given that he helped out by lifting it and hooking it over John's knee, which was unusually considerate of him. It would be rude and unproductive not to reward that consideration, John decided, so he eased his hand higher, and higher, until his fingertips touched _lace_.

_Sweet fucking shitting three-eyed Canadian Christ on a bike heading for Swindon._

_Stockings!_

Oh God, Sherlock was wearing stockings and John had absolutely no defence against that. He felt the bastard smile against his lips and the thigh muscle flexed just a bit, in sexy invitation.

Well, he'd be no kind of gentleman to turn down an invitation like that.

Slowly and carefully, he smoothed his fingers over the narrow strip of lace, then up the suspender strap that pressed lightly into the flesh of Sherlock's buttock, then went for it and plastered his whole hand over that lovely warm curve and _squeezed_.

"John," Sherlock breathed, but he didn't seem to haveanything more to say, or maybe he just didn't want to tear his mouth away from John's again. He pulled John against him more tightly, with a jerk of his arms, and then John's hand was shunted _up_ and was touching _more_ lace...

"God...are you wearing women's knickers?" he panted.

"Do try to keep up John," Sherlock purred. "I'm wearing women's everything."

John leaned back in and Sherlock mashed their mouths together and set about feeling up John's molars with his tongue, which was surprisingly enjoyable. It also meant that John could let Sherlock steer the kiss for a bit while his mind focused more on what his hand was feeling.

His hand was feeling a really nicely shaped hip, with the side of a pair of lace trimmed knickers sitting low across it. He half suspected that the fabric was tucked in between Sherlock's buttocks (in a way he blamed porn for making feel attractive even though he rationally thought it a bit unsanitary), but he didn't feel he quite had the strength to reach his hand around and find out, or at least not while technically in public. But it was so damned nice to have his hand up Sherlock's skirt, so he didn't pull it out yet, just let his fingers trickle over the lace around the top edge of the knickers, following it round until...until...his brain stopped.

Sherlock's arms tightened around him, fingers digging into his back almost painfully as John's fingertips encountered the swollen head of Sherlock's cock, tucked against his tummy, poking out from under the lace.

That was the most erotic thing John had ever seen and he couldn't even _see_ it! God, he hoped those knickers were black. He hoped Sherlock would let him have a good long look when they got home.

Their position on the seat, Sherlock's leg still hooked over his own, meant that John couldn't do what he would have liked to, which was to slide his hand into those knickers and around Sherlock's cock to give it a good long stroke.

That would have to wait, which wasn't really a bad thing, especially since he was quite sure that the taxi driver was spending almost as much time looking at them than he was looking at the road.

What John _could_ do however, was reach enough to rub the pad of his thumb over the slit, then down to tease the foreskin, making Sherlock pant into his mouth.

"Oh John..."

John wanted to be kissing again, but he also didn't want to miss any other statements that Sherlock might like to make in that brain-killingly sexy, breathless voice. His thoughts, disabled by arousal, were in a quandry for precious seconds, until he managed to come up with a perfect solution.

He leaned in and pressed his mouth to the side of Sherlock's neck. A bitten-off groan whirled past his ear, and the little glass beads of Sherlock's choker settled against his chin, and really, he should have thought of this sooner. So much hot, nice-tasting skin under his mouth, and his hand still in a very happy place under Sherlock's skirt.

He wriggled his thumb and got a little fluttery gasp in his ear for his trouble, and so kept wriggling, teasing back Sherlock's foreskin and gently rubbing the thin cord of his frenulum, feeling it grow moist as drops of fluid trickled down from the urethra. Sherlock shuddered and clung to John's shoulders, and John got the feeling that he was only barely managing to keep from making a lot of noise.

"You alright?" he whispered, slowing down the motion of his thumb.

"_Yss_," Sherlock hissed out, and his hand came up to press John's face back into the curve of his neck. John smiled; he could practically hear the '_shut up John_' that was implied.

He lifted his head and breathed warmly over Sherlock's ear. "You like this?"

"_Uhgn_...yes."

John turned his head to kiss Sherlock's earlobe, then whispered directly into the ear;

"When we get home, I'm going to hitch your skirt up and kneel in front of you-"

"_Ohgod_!"

"-and stroke you, just like this, just this little bit of you-"

"_Uhh..._"

"-over and over again-"

"_John_..."

"-with my tongue."

Sherlock heaved in a huge shuddering breath, at that same time that his arms clamped around John with almost painful force, at the same time that his cock twitched against the heel of John's hand.

John held on tightly and considered that he just might be the luckiest bastard on earth. He kissed Sherlock's mouth again, and found it cooled and dry from panting. Licked around to warm it back up again, just to be considerate. Another dribble of fluid ran over his thumb, and he began to wonder what the driver would do if he just got down on the floor of the taxi right then and there-

Then the driver cleared his throat noisily, and John tore himself away and looked out the window. They were only a minute or so away from Baker Street. Shit.

Oh no wait, that was a good thing! There weren't any taxi drivers to worry about in their flat (or at least there shouldn't be, and if there were they'd get the same treatment as the last one that messed with them) and there were useful things too. Like beds. And the bath tub. And the kitchen table, ooh there was a thought...

With Herculean effort, John yanked his brains back into his head and his hand from underneath Sherlock's skirt. Sherlock made a soft noise of disappointment, but didn't argue. He just smoothed down his dress and coat and shifted in his seat until he was sitting quite demurely, hands in his lap. The fullness of his skirt camoflaged his hard cock admirably, though John could not say that his own expensive suit did the same favour for him.

The driver glanced at them again in the rear view mirror and rolled his eyes. John couldn't wipe his grin off his face.

"John?" Sherlock said softly.

"Yes?" Sherlock's expression was serious, despite the high colour still brightening his cheeks.

"I'm glad you told me," he said, and John smiled at him, reached out to touch his hand.

He could admit to himself that part of him had been hoping for an 'I love you too', but he couldn't say he was disappointed.

The taxi pulled up right outside their door and John got out first, pausing to give Sherlock his hand as he climbed out. He got his wallet out of his pocket and stepped up to the driver's window to pay, while Sherlock walked slowly across the wide pavement to their front door and got his keys from his bag.

The taxi driver, counting out change, eyed 'Violet's legs apprecietively. "Looks like you've got your hands full mate," he said in an undertone.

John looked back towards the open front door, where Sherlock stood waiting in the shadowy hallway; the side of his face, his hand resting on the door frame and one long, long leg were all that could be seen of him in the light from the streetlamps.

"You don't know the half of it," John told the driver, and the man chuckled as he drove off.

::

And I keep up my cocktease record for another week.

Nobody panic! There will be shagging! I'm probably writing it as you read this, while desperately hoping nobody ever looks at my browser history for .

Ladies and gentlemen reading this, I would like you to promise me something; Should you ever find yourself in the position of sharing a taxi with Martin Freeman, just before you set off I'd like you to give him this chapter to read. Then spend the whole journey smiling and waggling your eyebrows at him. Would you do that for me?

I knew you would.

It's funny how long I spend deciding which bit of text is going to go as the chapter summary at the top there. Up until about an hour before I posted it, the summary for this one was just going to be

"_Sweet fucking shitting three-eyed Canadian Christ on a bike heading for Swindon."_

I like that line. I'm going to try and find more opportunities to use it in everyday life. Join me, won't you?


	13. The Deconstruction of Violet

Sherlock set off up the stairs as soon as John stepped over the threshhold, which was just as well really. If John had been able to get hold of him, he pobably would have ended up molesting him in the hall, and Mrs Hudson could only be expected to put up with so much.

John locked the front door and hurried up the stairs to find the door to their flat open and light pooling out into the dark hall. He went in and closed the door behind him. Sherlock stood in front of the sofa, and as John approached him he slipped his coat off his shoulders and held it out. John took it automatically and turned to hang it up next to its boyfriend.

When he turned back, Sherlock had gathered up the layers of his skirt and held it bunched around his stomach, staring down at his own body. The satin suspender straps and the lacy black knickers he wore lay against his skin like whorls and streaks of ink, pulling away from his flesh only in one place, where his still-hard cock peeped out above the front of the waistband.

"What do you think, John?" he asked casually.

There was a lump in John's throat. "Veh..._hrm..._very nice."

"Hmm. But I think it's time for them to come off, don't you?"

"Yes. Definitely yes."

Sherlock grinned and slid one thumb into the waistband, pulling it away from his hip a little and then letting it snap back. "These clothes are so damned awkward John. Won't you help me?"

John was on his knees on the floor before Sherlock got the last syllable out. Sliding his hands reverently up Sherlock's pale, lovely thighs, up over the stockings and the lace, he hooked his fingers into the waistband and gently eased them down. Stretched them out at the front to free Sherlock's eager, pink erection, then reached around to slide them over the curve of his buttocks, getting a good feel as he did so. He glanced up and saw Sherlock smiling warmly at him, his face slightly flushed under the makeup. The knickers slid down Sherlock's long legs, slipping easily over the fabric of the stockings, and John held them around his ankles so he could step out of them. Sherlock placed a hand on his shoulder and John expected him to take his foot out of the shoe first, but no. Left foot, then right, and then Sherlock was standing fully dressed and shod but for his underwear, still holding his skirt aloft.

John licked his lips, amazed that he wasn't openly drooling.

"I belive there was something..._specific_ that you'd like to do?" Sherlock murmured, and John nodded, staring at the lovely sleek shape of Sherlock's cock.

Sherlock let himself drop back onto the sofa, smiling lasciviously, and lifted one leg to rest his foot on the coffee table behind John. "Please, go right ahead then."

John grinned up at him and shifted sidewards on his knees until he was right between Sherlock's legs, then slid his hands up the insides of those wonderful thighs and leaned in.

At the first touch of his lips to the tip of Sherlock's cock, Sherlock let out a thin, wavery moan that almost undid John's nerve. He pulled back just enough that he could run his tongue over his lips, then dove in, gently grasping the shaft as he tongued back the foreskin and got his first real taste.

Oh god it was lovely.

The _noises_ Sherlock was making were like the best kind of porn, and John could feel the muscles in his thighs twitching in the effort to keep still. Remembering his promise in the taxi, John pressed Sherlock's cock up against his stomach and smeared his mouth open over the underside to keep it still when he took his hands away. It was easy to just mouth at him, while his palms slid teasingly up Sherlock's inner thighs, thumbs rubbing deeply at the adductor muscles, the tensile stretch of tendon there. And while Sherlock squirmed at that unexpected pleasure, John found the exact spot he'd been touching with his thumb and applied a liquid wriggle of his tongue.

Sherlock made a sound like the whistle of a steam train and brought both hands down to grab at John's shoulders. John dug his fingers more deeply into Sherlock's thighs and kept squirming his tongue right against that evidently very sensitive spot, feeling pre-ejaculate fluid bubble up just where his upper lip rested. He waited until Sherlock was moaning and gasping and struggling not to move...then tilted his head, grabbed the shaft with one hand and went down on his cock as far as he could.

If Mrs Hudson was in, they were going to get asked awkward questions about that scream.

Sherlock groaned luxuriantly, rocking his hips as John bobbed his head, relaxing into it. He'd always been quite good at this; sucking and slurping and working the skin with his tongue. Sherlock moved the foot that was resting on the edge of the coffee table and draped his leg over John's shoulder, the rounded heel of his shoe smacking John in the back.

John could take a hint. He leaned in further and worked down until he could feel the tip of Sherlock's cock breach the opening of his throat.

The shrill _yelp_ that met that told him that it had been appreciated, but he wasn't entirely surprised when he felt Sherlock's hands grabbing at him, pushing him away. He sat back on his heels and wiped his mouth. Sherlock looked half wrecked already, red and sweaty.

"You'd like something else, perhaps?" John asked with a smirk.

"Get..._uh_...get undressed John," Sherlock replied breathlessly, and John was still grinning like an idiot as he got to his feet and started to take off his clothes. Jacket, tie and shirt first, hung neatly over the back of Sherlock's armchair, then he knelt to take off shoes and socks, all the time watched by Sherlock's fever-bright gaze. He looked up when Sherlock rose to his feet, and froze, captivated.

Eyes on John, hard cock pushing the front of his skirt out, Sherlock removed his necklaces and tossed them onto the sofa, then his bracelets went the same way. He undid the little satin covered buttons on the cuffs of his dress, and reached up behind his neck to unfasten the similar button at the top of his zip. John got to his feet, as Sherlock slid a hand up the back of his own neck to scoop his hair up, then turned his back.

"Unzip me, would you?" he asked, and John had never heard a question seem so like a command before.

He stepped in close and caught hold of the tiny metal tab with one shaking hand, turned his head to place his open mouth against the smooth, warm skin of Sherlock's nape as he drew the zip down. The fabric parted easily, sliding forward on Sherlock's shoulders, and John reached to help it along, slipping it off Sherlock's arms and down from his waist, until the fabric pooled around his feet and across the tops of John's bare toes.

Sherlock wore a bra to match the knickers, black and trimmed with lace, and he tugged at the front of it, removing his breast forms, John realised. He reached back and plucked at the fastening as he turned in John's arms. John pulled him close for a kiss, feeling Sherlock's bare cock pressed between them, Sherlock's thin, wiry arm wrap around his waist, Sherlock's other arm...still fiddling with the _bra_, damn it!

John reached around and undid it for him and let go of him so he could remove it.

Sherlock didn't remove it.

"What did you just do!"

"What do you mean? I undid it for you. You seemed to be having some trouble," John grinned.

"With one hand?" Sherlock grabbed the bra off and thrust it at John. "Show me how!"

"...Now?"

Sherlock looked at the bra, then down between their bodies. He threw the bra onto the sofa. "Later," he agreed, and John pulled him close for another kiss.

He felt Sherlock's hands between them as their tongues slid together, long fingers fumbling at his belt and flies until they were undone, and John could push his trousers and underwear off in one go, kicking them away. Sherlock pulled back from him again, looked down at him, and dropped back to sit in the very edge of the sofa.

"What-"

"I'm looking John."

He certainly was. Those pale eyes were fixed intently on John's groin, taking in every detail, though what he was gleaning from it, John couldn't imagine. Rather taken aback, he just stood still and let Sherlock get on with it. Presently, Sherlock raised his hands and clasped one loosely around John's penis, fingertips feeling gently at the ridge and the veins, while the other hand lifted and cupped his balls.

It felt...nice. Bit disconcerting though.

"Sherlock?"

"Mmm?"

"What are you doing?"

"Having a good look at you."

He certainly was. He was leaning close enough now that John could feel warm breath on the tip of his cock, and he was starting to feel a bit twitchy. Just as he was about to speak again, Sherlock squeezed just a _tad_ more firmly than was really polite with both hands, then let go.

"Very nice," he murmured, with a tone of genuine appreciation in his voice. "I'd like you to fuck me with it."

"Shit!" John blurted, and Sherlock stood, smirking at him.

"Just...just a bit of a surprise," John explained, panting, and Sherlock smiled brilliantly, turned, and slinked off to his bedroom, still in shoes and stockings. Halfway there, he turned and looked over his shoulder.

"Don't take this the wrong way John, but I don't have any lube."

"I have. I'll get it...What do you mean, 'the wrong way'?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I'm not a virgin. That's all. It's just been rather a long time, you know?"

John nodded as Sherlock disappeared through the door, then had to stand and calm down for a few moments before he felt he could trust his legs to carry him up the stairs. He dashed up (never an easy thing when naked) and grabbed the bottle of lubricant and a half-full box of condoms from the old flat box labelled 'handkerchiefs' in his desk drawer (the best way, he had found, to keep Sherlock out of his stuff) and took them back downstairs.

The door of Sherlock's room was open, and John went inside and placed the bottle and condoms on the bedside table. Sherlock had shoved the detritus of that afternoon's transformation into the corners of the otherwise sparse and tidy room, and he stood in front of the mirror on the far wall, running one of the pointlessly expensive hair brushes through his locks. There was a clump of what looked like wet wipes on the top of the chest of drawers next to him, stained with grey and pale peach, and John realised that he had taken his make up off.

Sherlock put the brush down and turned to John, his hair beginning to pop back into its usual curls now that whatever potions Kirsty had put in it were brushed out.

"Nice to have you back," John told him, and Sherlock smiled and stepped forwards to put his arms around him. He'd taken the heels off, but still had his stockings on, and it was on the tip of John's tongue to tell him that it was weird. But if he did that, Sherlock might take them off.

It was okay, they could both be weird.

Sherlock pulled him over to the bed and then pushed John onto the mattress and flopped on top of him, smushing his mouth to John's for more kisses. John wrapped arms and legs around Sherlock and squeezed, cradling that long skinny body on top of him and grinning into their kiss. He could barely believe his luck.

After a few minutes, Sherlock was panting again and dragged himself off John to lie back against the headboard, legs spread. He reached over for the lube bottle and glanced at the label, before proffering it to John.

"Get me ready," he ordered casually.

"Are you-"

"If you ask me if I'm sure John, I will kick you."

"Righto," John replied, recognising the line between due consideration and looking a gift horse in the mouth.

He took the bottle and pumped out a generous amount into his palm, settling himself between Sherlock's thighs and leaning forward to kiss him again while he waited for the liquid to warm a bit. Then he slid his hand down, fingers slicking into the crevice of Sherlock's buttocks and stroking the hot skin there.

Sherlock made a soft pleasure noise and tipped his head back, a faint smile on his face. In the low light, John could see red marks on his chest where the silicon had been pressed tightly to his skin, and the cresent stripes from the bra cups. He leaned forward and put his lips gently to one of the marks, then carefully licked the little pink nipple next to it. Sherlock _mmm_ed and laid a heavy hand on the back of John's head, and John continued to tongue at the little bud while his fingertips massaged gently around Sherlock's anus.

When he slipped his index finger in, Sherlock sighed happily, like a man suddenly relieved of pain. When John crooked that finger and, with surgical accuracy, stroked Sherlock's prostate, Sherlock let out another porn star moan and clawed his fingers into John's hair. He couldn't get a grip on it, as short and fine as it was, for which John was very glad. He eased another finger in and Sherlock bucked underneath him, and by the time John was satisfied that Sherlock was ready, a few minutes of careful stretching later, Sherlock was barely coherent.

"Get...get...god, just _do_ it John!" he gasped, and John, rather breathless himself, nodded as he reached to the bedside table for a condom.

Sherlock tried to smack his hand away.

"I don't like those things," he snapped.

"Well, that's a pity because we're using one," John told him firmly, and gave Sherlock's prostate another little prod to distract him enough that he could grab the box and get one out. He pulled his fingers out to open the packet, and when he looked up from putting it on, Sherlock had his arms folded and was scowling at him.

John leaned over him and kissed the top of his ear. "I don't care if you hate them, I'm not prepared to put you at risk, even though the risk is small. Clear?"

The annoyance cleared from Sherlock's face a little – had he thought John had been worried about being at risk from him? – and he nodded and reached out a hand to touch John's penis again, his touch warm and firm even through the latex. He leaned up and nuzzled at John's jaw as John got more lube and stroked it over his cock, then Sherlock lay back and held out his arms.

"Like this. Get on top of me," he said, and John was there ready, Sherlock's knee hooked over his shoulder, before his brain had even had time to catch up. They both craned their necks to share another quick kiss, then John reached down to find his way in, and they both groaned loudly as the head of his cock eased into Sherlock's body.

Despite John's careful preparation Sherlock was still tight, but he was relaxed enough that John was able to silde quite deep on that first stroke, deeper still with the second, and within mere moments they had found a rhythm between them, Sherlock's hips bucking up to meet his thrusts. Soft cries of pleasure escaped Sherlock's throat with every motion, as if they were being driven out of him.

Oh they were naturals at this. They were so _good_ together.

Sherlock was making a hell of a lot of noise, but John was beyond being bothered by it. The head of the bed was banging against the wall, and as much as John was trying to be at least a _bit_ gentle, Sherlock was only encouraging him, clinging to him and yelling for more, and before John knew it he was fucking him with all his might.

It wasn't long at all, unfortunately, before John felt Sherlock's hand slip between them to grasp at his cock, and after a few jerky strokes, Sherlock was coming, body arching backwards and no sound beyond the hiss of air emerging from his throat. In the sudden, astonishing quiet, John thrust deep, once, again, and came with a cry of Sherlock's name.

::

Sherlock was smiling. This wasn't John's favourite Sherlock smile, but it was a pleasantly familiar one, the corners of his mouth jinked up smugly and his lips just slightly parted in the middle. It was his got-one-over-on-the-police smile. It was his standing-behind-a-smoker-and-sniffing-them smile. It was his headless-handless-footless-corpse-discovered-in-an-industrial-refrigerator smile.

It was also, evidently, his post-coital smile.

They were lounging on Sherlock's bed, sticking to the sheets and to each other, dippy on endorphins and body heat.

John nuzzled at the side of Sherlock's neck and tugged at the band of his suspender belt until he found the fastening and undid it. Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief.

"Glad to take it off?" John asked, sitting up.

"Rather. I won't mind if it's a while before I wear one of these again. Though obviously, it's done its duty."

John grinned at him and undid the suspender straps, then started peeling down one of the stockings. Sherlock lifted his leg to help, then waggled his foot aggressively when John got there so he had to fight to get it all the way off. They both ended up laughing.

"Will you keep your dress and everything?" John asked casually.

"I dare say so. You never know when a good disguise will be useful." His smile became sultry. "I'll certainly keep the stockings and knickers."

"That's nice," John replied blandly, and got to work on the other stocking.

"Maybe the lipstick too."

"Oh?"

"Mm. You said that the colour suited me, yes?"

"I did."

Sherlock sighed luxuriantly as John threw the stocking overboard and flumped back down next to him. "I'll definitely keep it then John. I want to leave a purple ring around your cock."

John replied with some random consonants, which made Sherlock chuckle.

They snogged a bit more until John's tongue was working properly again. Then John sat up and peeled a patch of sheet away from his sticky thigh. "May I suggest we sleep in my bed?" he offered. "I think if we fall asleep here we'll never escape."

For a moment it occured to him that he may have overstepped the line; Sherlock had never made any decisions about the changed nature of their relationship. It may be that he was willing to have sex with John, but uninterested in sleeping with him.

He needn't have worried.

"That's a fine idea. Your bed is comfier in cool weather."

John got to his feet, then turned and looked at Sherlock with a frown. "How do you know that?"

"I slept in it one night last autumn. My bed had ants and you were at your girlfriend's house. The easily offended one."

All of John's girlfriends had been easily offended according to Sherlock.

"Ants?"

"I'd explain but you'd get upset," Sherlock replied airily. "I'm going to hop in the shower."

So Sherlock rinsed himself off in the shower while John picked up their clothes from the living room floor, then John took his turn getting clean while Sherlock checked his phone and sent a few texts. He was sitting cross-legged on his bed, drying the last dampness from his hair with a towel, when Sherlock came in. He was wearing his pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt, and the water had washed the last of his hair stuff away leaving it hanging around his face in loose spirals.

They grinned at each other for a moment, then John threw his towel over the desk and shoved the duvet down so they could get in. Given their different builds, it took them a while to get comfortable, to strike a balance between comfortable and snuggly. They managed it in the end though, with Sherlock plastered against John's side and John's arms around him. John turned over and reached to his bedside table to set his alarm clock. It was past 2 a.m. but they'd promised Lestrade that they'd be in, so he set it for eight. A fair amount of sleep, and still time for them to get to the Yard for a decent hour.

"John," Sherlock said softly from behind him. "Say it again."

John lay back in the bed and looked over at Sherlock. He looked...not quite vulnerable, but close.

"I love you," John said. "I love you Sherlock."

Sherlock smiled at him, and John hoped that it wasn't too obvious that he'd just fucking _melted_, because that was the kind of thing that Sherlock wouldn't think twice about using against him.

Sherlock's hands came up to touch his face, gently cupping the shapes of his jaw with his long, cool hands. Then he squeezed, painfully.

"I never, _never_ want to see you flirting with women again. Never!"

"Okay," John said, heart leaping.

"Unless it's for a case," Sherlock amended, tapping his thumbs absently against John's cheeks.

"No flirting except for cases," John summarised, and Sherlock nodded and let go of his face, settling back down into his pillows.

John cracked his jaw until it felt normal again and reached over to switch off the light.

It was always warm in his little bedroom, and he had the winter duvet on his bed still, so they were decidedly cosy. Warm and happy and satisfied, John was drifting close to the edge of sleep when Sherlock spoke, voice quiet in the dark.

"John, what I said earlier...I'd never want you to be like me. You shouldn't be like anyone but yourself. I couldn't bear for you to become a...a second, inferior version of me. I want you to be exactly what you are; the ideal John Watson."

John turned his head to kiss him, feeling incomparably adored.

::

I hope the pay off was worth it.

I'm going to add a little epilogue too, just to round things off, and I'll do more author notes then.

This chapter's title is taken from 221b_hound's comment on chapter 9. (I hope you don't mind me using it!)


	14. The Morning After the Night Before

By nine the following morning they were in a taxi heading for the Yard. Both were, unsurprisingly, in a good mood; Sherlock was subtle about it, humming to himself occasionally and gazing dreamily out the window, while John just couldn't stop grinning.

They'd woken about half an hour before the alarm went off, and had spent the intervening time with their arms locked around one another, rutting lazily together until they came. A shared shower and some breakfast completed John's elated mood, to the point that, while he was eating his toast, he got the bra and a pillow and gave Sherlock a quick masterclass in undoing bras one-handed. Naturally Sherlock picked it up quickly, and John now had a half-formed, hopefully unrealistic idea of what might happen should Donovan get too close today. Kirsty had phoned and they'd both had a chat with her, telling her about how it all worked out. Sherlock took a moment to boast about having had sex; he seemed quite pleased with himself. When he'd finally deigned to pass the phone (John's) to John, Kirsty congratulated him.

John felt surprisingly normal on the walk up to Lestrade's office. It felt like the people around him should be able to tell that...well, that things had changed. But nothing was different; nobody looked twice at them. Except for a few people giving Sherlock glares, but that was par for the course.

As they walked across the open plan office to the corner that housed Lestrade, it occured to John how quiet the place was. Of course, it was Sunday morning, so the department would naturally be less populated than it was during the week. But the relative hush did allow him to hear something that he really hadn't expected. From somewhere nearby came the sound of Algernon Garvin's voice. He glanced at Sherlock and saw that he'd heard it too.

"Shall we go and say hello to dear Algie?"

"No. _No_ Sherlock, leave the poor bugger alone."

Sherlock smirked, and John braced himself for an argument, when Garvin defused the situation by exiting the office he'd been in and freezing like a rabbit in the headlights at the sight of John.

"Morning," John greeted him cheerfully. Next to him, Sherlock was putting on his 'friendly and amenable' smile.

"Mr Garvin, how _nice_ to see you again," he said cheerily.

Garvin looked at him and paled. It occured to John to wonder what kind of shape the man's heart was in.

Fortunately, Lestrade chose that moment to emerge from his office, and Sherlock swept off to meet him, Garvin immediately gone from his mind.

John stayed, pinned by Garvin's horrified gaze.

"You..."

"Yes."

The detective who had been taking his statement emerged from the office behind him and stared worriedly between him and John. John shook his head slightly at her. He didn't think he was in any danger.

"You're not..." Garvin began weakly.

"I'm not an abusive husband. In fact if you ask my, ah, my other half, you'll find I'm quite the gentleman." He smiled a little, hoping that Garvin would follow suit. He didn't.

The older man's eyes remained fixed on John's as his jaw worked uncomfortably, chewing over his thoughts. Sherlock was in Lestrade's office now, John could hear their raised voices. If Garvin didn't come up with anything soon, he'd have to just walk away. Finally though, the other man opened his mouth.

"I...I apologise. Mr An... Mr Watson."

"Please think nothing of it Mr Garvin. I'm sorry for the deception."

Garvin nodded, eyes far away now, and John glanced towards the detective before setting off for Lestrade's office.

Poor bugger, John thought again. He met the love of his life and it turned out to be Sherlock.

Mind you, that hadn't ended so badly for _him_.

By the time he got into the office, Sherlock and Lestrade seemed to have gone willingly back to their corners and were sitting on opposite sides of the desk, glaring at one another. Lestrade looked up at him as he came in and pulled a statement form from a drawer. John reached out for it, used to the process by now, and sat down to start filling it in.

"So this Kirsty Lowen; what did you say she does? She's a professional...woman?"

"She's a _consulting_ woman," Sherlock replied. "The only one in the world. She invented the job."

"Right," Lestrade muttered, scribbling something in his notebook. "And she taught you how to dress in drag."

Sherlock _humph_ed and John, spotting another argument brewing, intervened. "She advises transgender people on their appearance and making the transition from one gender to another," he summarised. "She's very clever. Everyone at that party was totally convinced that Sherlock was a woman."

Lestrade still looked confused. Sherlock gave a gusty sigh.

"Oh for heaven's sake! Just ask or we'll be here all day."

Lestrade looked steadily at Sherlock and chewed contemplatively on the inside of his cheek for a moment, then finally let his curiosity get the better of him.

"Do the high heels hurt to walk in?"

"At first. Next."

"Weren't you cold?"

"Only when we were outdoors. Next."

"Was that a wig?"

"No, Kirsty straightened my hair. Next."

"Did you wear a bra to...to put your falsies in?"

Sherlock scowled darkly.

"They aren't falsies," John cut in, deadpan. "They're hand-finished silicon breast-forms."

"Each areola is a work of art!" Sherlock added passionately.

"He's quite pleased with them."

Lestrade nodded weakly, then gave his head a little shake, as if to clear it.

John finished filling in the form and passed it over, and for the next ten minutes or so Lestrade went over both their statements, as careful as ever, asking questions and confirming details here and there.

They were just about done, when there was a knock at the door and Dimmock rudely let himself in.

"Greg, I...oh, hello. If it isn't Miss Anderson!" he smirked.

"Mrs, actually," Sherlock replied with an air of haughty nonchalance.

Dimmock just stood there for a bit, apparently having been unprepared for his jibe to fail to get a rise. Finally the corners of his mouth twitched and he tried again.

"I suppose you _are_ the type who enjoys things like that, eh?"

The 'freak' was implied, but they all heard it, and Sherlock bristled, his mouth pinching into a sour curve.

"At least he has the option," John put in lightly. "You wouldn't have the legs for it."

Not the sharpest comeback, but Dimmock seemed put out anyway. Lestrade stood as John and Sherlock got to their feet, and made the usual hopeless plea about court dates and ties as he walked them back across the office to the lifts. Sherlock said goodbye to him firmly as the lift carriage arrived and, with a sigh, Lestrade let them be.

John jostled Sherlock with his elbow and said quietly; "I hope you don't mind my having said that. I know it was childish."

The lift doors pinged open and they both stepped in, Sherlock smiling. "Not at all," he replied. "It's nice to be stood up for."

They were just standing there, facing into the office, smiling stupidly at each other by that point, and John got the feeling that there were quite a few pairs of eyes staring at them. Sherlock pushed the button for the ground floor without looking away from John's face and the old lift began to make its familiar heaving noises.

_Come on_, John thought. _You've got about five seconds before the doors close. You know you want to._

He wasn't sure if he was urging on himself or Sherlock, but they both moved in the same instant, leaning together for a kiss as the lift doors began to slide shut. John was aware of a gasp from the office and Sherlock's wry smile against his lips, but he didn't really care now.

He got to be the one kissing Sherlock, and he didn't really give a damn about much else.

::

Phew!

Well, this has been a very interesting and enjoyable story to write. Thank you all for reading, and I hope you had as much fun with it as much as I did. Thank you also to everyone who has left me a comment. They kept me going when I hit tricky spots, and I appreciate each and every one of them.

I was reading a lot of Agatha Christie stories when I was writing this, and it sort of shows. Garvin's two assistants, Norman Vale and M. Fournier, are both named after characters from Death in the Clouds (I suck at naming characters so I tend to 'borrow' names or slightly change them) and Sherlock's final line in chapter 13 is inspired by a quote from Lord Edgware Dies, when Poirot says to Hastings;

"_No human being should learn from another. Each individual should develop his own powers to the uttermost, not try to imitate those of someone else. I do not wish you to be a second and inferior Poirot. I wish you to be the supreme Hastings."_

which I always thought was quite a romantic line, if one wishes to interpret it that way.

I liked Kirsty and might try and bring her back at some point, though I don't quite know how. I also find Lestrade realy good fun to write, so I might try and do more with him in my next story. I do have some ideas for other Sherlock stories actually, but I think I'm going to try and get some work done on my original fiction for a while now, and come back to Sherlock when I've made some progress with that, as my readers have been very patient with me. If you'd like to read more of my writing, my original fiction, which includes slashy fairytales in a modern setting, a couple of standalone stories, saucy logic puzzles, and my epic, novel length quasi-historical romance in-progress, The Blue Prince, is all housed at , under the name DancingGrimm (there's a link on my profile).

I'm also on livejournal and Tumblr, also as DancingGrimm. I'm not good at the whole social networking thing, so these serve mainly as updates listings for my writing, but if you'd like to follow me, you're more than welcome to do so.

That's the end of my blatant self promotion. For now.

A while ago, AssamTea asked my permission to translate this story into Chinese, and I asked that she (I think it's a 'she') wait until it was finished in case I needed to go back and edit anything. As it's now done, I'm happy for AssamTea to go ahead. If you read this, please let me know where you post the story in Chinese and I'll be sure to link to it.

Raayner also mentioned some art to accompany the story, which I am waiting for with much excitement :D

Once again, thank you for reading, and have a great day.

DG


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